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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MSSO 

(716)  872  4503 


i/.x 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Histoiical  Microreproductions  /  institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibiiograph^cally  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


D 


n 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


□    Covers  damaged/ 
Cc 


Couverture  endommagde 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur(§e  et/ou  pellicul6e 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleui 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 


Fyl    Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 


21 


along  interior  margin/ 

Lareliure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 

distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intdrieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  v/ithin  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
lors  d'une  /estauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  film^es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6X6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvjnt  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  m^thode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu^s  ci-dessous. 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

I    "1/  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
'  Vl    Pages  ddcolor^es,  tachet6es  ou  piqudes 


I      I    Pages  detached/ 


Pages  d6tach6es 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Qualit^  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materic 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementt^ire 

□    Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponibU 


I      I    Showthrough/ 

rT~>  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


The< 
to  th< 


The* 
possi 
of  th 
filmi( 


Origi 
begir 
the  li 
sion, 
othei 
first 
sion, 
or  ill( 


The  I 
shall 
TINU 
whic 

Map) 
diffei 
entiri 
begir 
right 
requi 
meih 


D 


disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  dt^  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  faqon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


HALF-TITLE  PAGE  MISSING 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  i'\m6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqud  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


»X 


SOX 


V 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


ire 

details 
les  du 
modifier 

ler  une 
filmage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of : 

Thomas  Fisher  Rare  Book  Library, 
UnivArsity  of  Toronto  Library 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  <tpecifications. 


L'exemplaire  filmd  fut  reproduit  grace  it  la 
gAnirosit^  de: 

Thomai  Fisher  Rare  Book  Library, 
University  of  Toronto  Library 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  it6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  netteti  de  l'exemplaire  fiimd,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


ies 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim6e  sont  film^s  en  commencant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreirte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmis  en  commenqant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
c.i«:  le  symbole  — »-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


•e 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmis  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichi,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


f  errata 
d  to 

It 

le  pelure, 

pon  d 


in 


'    1 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

I' 


u 


if 


I 


7 


[J 


> 


V, 

<4 


WHO  WINS? 


oa 


THE  SECRET  OF  MONKSWOOD  WASTE. 


BT 


MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 

AUTHOR  OF 

*The  Unseen  Bridegroom,"  "  The  Heiress  op  GiiEN  GowsB. 

"The  Baronet's  Bride,"  "Estella's  HuauAND," 

'Lady  J^velyn,"  ••  Maodalkn's  Vow,"  etc. 


«« 


?^ 


Oonanntt  1870,  bt  Daym  A  EvntauK, 


-i 


♦^["sweetheart  series  l-j^l^fr 


I) 


New  Tork: 

GEORGE  MUNRO'S  SONS,  PUBLISHERfl, 

17  TO  27  Vandewater  Street. 


AH  iTRAIGflT  FRONT  «°>«is 


THE   MOTHER'S  MISSION. 


1840. 


1903. 


A  great  Emperor  ono» 
asked  one  of  his  noble 
subjects  what  would  se- 
cure his  country  the  first 
place  among  the  nations 
of  the  earth.  The  noble- 
man's grand  reply  was, 
"Good  mothers,"  Now, 
what  congfitutes  a  good 
mother?  The  answer  is 
conclusive :  She  who, 
regarding  the  future 
welfare  of  her  child, 
seeks  every  available 


means  that  may  offer  to  promote  a  sound  physical  development,  to 
the  end  that  her  offspring  may  not  be  deficient  in  any  single  faculty 
with  which  nature  has  endowed  it.  In  infancy  tnere  is  no  period 
which  is  more  likely  to  aifcct  the  future  disposition  of  the  child 
t/'mn  that  of  tecihiug,  producing  as  it  docs  fretfulness,  moroseness 
of  mind,  etc.,  wliich  if  not  checked  will  manifest  itself  in  after  dayst 

USE   MRS.  WINSLOW'S    SOOTHING    SYRUP. 

FOR  OVER  SIXTY  YEARS. 

An  Old  and  Well-lried   Kemcdy. 

MRS.  WINSLOW'S  SOOTHING  SYRUP  Ims  been  used  for  ovet 
SIXTY  YEARS  ;;y  MIIJJONS  of  IMOl'tlERS  for  tliHr  CfllF.DHEN  WHILE) 
TEETHING,  WITH  PKRi^ECT  SUPOKSS.  IT  SOOTHES  tlie  CHILD,  SOFT- 
tN'8  the  GUMS.  ALLAVy  all  PAIN;  CURES  WIND  COMC.  and  is  tlie  beg| 
nmied.v  for  DIARRHG'.A.  SnM  bv  Dnifreists  in  evprv  pnit  of  tbe  world.  Be 
Wire  and  ask  for  MRS.  WINSLOW'S  SOOTHING-  SYBUP,  aad 
Lbke  DO  other  kind. 

Twenty-Five    Cents   a   Bottle. 


a 
c 


nl 


) 


1  / 


WHO  WINS? 


CHAPTER  I. 


ON    THE    TRAMP. 


N. 

iperorono© 
[  his  noble 
t  would  se- 
itry  the  first 
the  nations 
The  noble- 
reply  -was, 
icrs."  Now, 
tutesagood 
lie  nnswer  is 
She  who, 
he  future 
her   child, 
ry  available 
Biopment,  to 
ingle  faculty 
is  no  period 
of  the  child 
,  moroseness 
in  after  day* 

rRUP. 


cdy. 

■n  used  for  ovei 
DKEN  WHILE 
CHILD,  SOFT- 
and  is  the  best 
ilifl  world.  Ba 
SYBXJP,  aoa 


"  Are  we  almost  there,  Joe?  I  am  dead  beat — I  can  not 
go  further.  Yonder  are  tlie  lights  of  Leamington — let  us  rest 
there." 

The  man  looked  round  at  the  piteous  cry.  He  was  a  big> 
broad-shouldered  fellow,  with  a  certain  stride  and  swing,  bold 
and  free,  that  stamped  him  soldier,  in  spite  of  the  disguising 
farmer's  garb  lie  wore.  A  young  man,  big-boned  and  loose- 
jointed,  with  a  sullen,  sunburned  face — what  you  could  see  of 
it  for  the  shaggy  black  beard  and  blacker  cascade  of  mustache 
— purple-black  Jiair  close-cropped,  and  big,  savage  black  eyes. 
A  fierce,  gypsy-faced  fellow,  with  a  murderous  scowl  on  hie 
bent  brow,  a  murderous  devil  in  either  eye,  and  horrible  oaths 
perpetually  on  liis  lips. 

He  looked  around — this  big,  black-browed  Saul,  at  the 
plaintive,  womanly  cry.  She  was  his  wife— the  little,  slender 
creature  beside  him,  wilh  a  face  of  pallid  whiteness,  drawn  and 
pinched  with  unutterable  weariness  and  hunger  and  cold.  For, 
though  the  night  was  August,,  she  shivered  as  she  tottered 
along  the  endless  way,  under  the  weight  of  a  heavy,  sleeping 
child.  She  was  miserably  clad,  and  her  blistered  feet  were 
hardly  protected  from  the  pitiless  stones  by  the  wretched  shoes 
she  wore.  She  strained  the  little  one  to  her  with  a  fierce,  hard 
clasp  that  had  little  of  love  in  it,  though  it  was  her  only  one, 
hushing  its  fearful  wails  with  vindictive  little  shakes.  A  for- 
lorn and  wretched  couple  as  any  on  whom  that  warm  August 
night  shut  down. 

'*  Whimpering  again,"  the  man  said,  with  a  horrible  oath; 
**  you  want  me  to  beat  in  that  white  face  of  yours  to  a  jelly — 
don't  you?  Shut  up,  you  whining  fool,  or  I'll  blacken  your 
other  eye  to  match  the  one  I  blackened  last  night  I" 

"  But,  Joe,"  with  a  wild,  tortured  ory,  "  I  can  not  go  on. 


(( 


»^i^ 


6 


WHO  wnrs? 


I  tell  you.  My  feet  are  bleeding  and  blistered,  my  arms  ache 
with  the  weight  of  this  child,  and  my  head  is  throbbing  until 
I  am  blind  with  pain.  For  God's  sake,  stop  at  Leammgton 
to-night— we  will  reach  Plymouth  before  the  ship  sails  to- 

The  man's  answer  was  a  brutal  blow.  He  turned  round 
upon  the  frail  creature  beside  him,  Avith  a  volley  of  blood- 
curdling oaths,  and  struck  her  full  in  the  face. 

**  I  told  you  I'd  do  it,"  he  said,  with  a  wolfish  glare  in  his 
greenish-black  eyes;  **  mw,  will  you  stop  your  whimpering, 
mistress?  You  used  to  be  proud  of  that  pretty  face  of  yours. 
Look  in  the  glass  to-morrow,  and  see  if  you'll  be  proud  of  it 
any  mare.  Come  on,  and  hold  your  infernal  clack,  or  PU 
smash  every  bone  in  your  body,  by !" 

The  woman  had  staggered  blindly  back,  the  blood  spurting 
from  a  deep  cut  between  the  eyes,  but  she  did  not  fall.  She 
put  up  one  hand  and  wiped  away  the  flowing  blood,  then, 
without  a  single  word,  resumed  her  walk  after  him. 

"  Oh,  we  take  it  quiet,  do  we!"  the  man  said,  with  a  back- 
ward growl;  *'  a  little  blood-letting  settles  some  people  won- 
derfully. Now,  come,  and  let's  have  no  more  jaw  about 
stopping  at  Leammgton.  I'll  stop  where  I  see  fit  and  when  I 
see  proper — not  before.     Come  on  faster,  and  be  hanged  to 

you!'"' 

The  woman  wore  a  deep  sun-hood  of  the  poorest  and  plain- 
est kind,  but  it  effectually  sliaded  her  face.  That  face  had 
turned  of  a  dull,  leaden  white,  where  the  blood  did  not  horri- 
bly disfigure  it,  and  the  light  in  the  swollen  and  discolored 
eyes  was  a  light  that  might  have  made  that  reckless  man 
tremble. 

It  was  still  eai'ly  in  the  night,  between  nine  and  ten.  The 
road  was  long  and  lonely,  and  far  and  faint  in  the  distance 
twinkled  the  lights  of  Leamington  village,  athwart  the  pur- 
phsh  haze.  The  sky,  bending  down  on  the  tree-tops,  was 
overcast  and  menacing.  The  moon  rent  her  ^  ly  up  through 
piles  of  jagged  cloud,  and  what  wind  there  was  sighed  with  an 
i^iearthly,  eerie  moan  up  from  the  sea.  Wild  weather  was 
near — wild  weather  for  this  wretched  trio,  for  weary  days  and 
nights  on  the  tramp. 

Dead  silence  fell  between  them  now.  The  woman's  lips 
were  compressed,  as  though  she  never  meant  to  open  them 
again,  and  the  eyes,  dull  and  lifeless  before,  blazed  up  with 
terrible  fire.  The  blow,  that  might  have  beaten  out  all  her 
feeble  remaining  strength,  had  goaded  her  on  with  a  fierce  des- 
peration born  of  vhidictive  hatred  and  despair.     In  dead 


i 


L._ 


WHO    WINS? 


7 


arms  ache 
:ih'm^  until 
leamington 
p  Bails  to- 
ned round  • 
r  of  blood-  I 

flare  in  his 
himpering, 
e  of  yours, 
proud  of  it 
ack,  or  1*11 

3d  spurting 
;  fall.  She 
ilood,  then, 

• 

ith  a  back- 
people  won- 

jaw  about 
and  when  I 

hanged  to 

b  and  plain- 
at  face  had 
i  not  horri- 
discolored 
ckless  man 

.  ten.  The 
;he  distance 
rt  the  pur- 
2e-tops,  was 
up  through 
bed  with  an 
kveather  was 
,ry  days  and 


I 


Oman's  lips 

open  them 

^  up  with 

/lit  all  her 

fierce  des- 

In  dead 


ted 
out 
a 


sflence  she  walked  on  itfter  him  along  the  lonesome,  dusty 
road,  straining  the  8leepii}g  child  to  her  breast  with  an  energy 
of  fierce  strength  that  made  his  intolerable  weight  no  more 
than  a  featlier. 

The  road  ended  in  the  village.  Ten  was  striking  loudly  by 
the  Leamington  clocks  as  they  passed  through  the  long,  strag- 
gling streets.  Lights  twinkled  here  and  there  from  cottage 
homes,  and  the  Vino  Inn  was  brilliant  with  illumination.  The 
man  stopped  before  it,  licking  his  dry,  cracked  lips  in  a  wolfish 
sort  of  way. 

**  I'm  going  in  for  a  pot  o'  porter,  mistress,"  he  said;  "  wait 
you  here  till  I  come  back." 

Still  dead  silence.  Growling  out  inward  oaths  that  seemed 
to  come  as  naturally  as  his  very  breath,  he  tramped  into  the 
inn  and  vanished  like  an  evil  gnome  in  the  lighted  door-way. 

Stock-still  the  Avoman  stood  looking  straight  before  her  into 
the  purplish  mists  of  the  night,  with  a  fierce,  reckless  stare. 
Once  she  si^oke  in  a  whisper  to  herself  and  her  own  dark 
thoughts. 

**  Take  your  drink,  Joe  Dawson;  it  will  be  your  last.  You 
have  trodden  on  the  worm  for  two  long  years;  its  time  has 
come  to  turn.  You  will  never  strike  the  fool  who  married 
you  another  blow." 

The  man  came  out  of  the  public-house,  wiping  his  lips  with 
the  back  of  his  big,  sunburned  hand. 

**  Come  on!"  he  cried,  with  his  customary  oath  and  growl. 
"  None  o'  your  lazy  lagging  here!" 

The  landlord  had  followed  his  suspicfbus-looking  customer 
to  the  door,  and  stood  looking  after  him  until  he  disappeared. 
He  heard  the  brutish  ivords  and  remembered  them,  and  the 
frail-looking  creature  to  whom  they  were  addressed,  long 
after,  when  the  whole  country  rang  with  his  name. 

*'  A  rough  customer,"  the  landlord  thought.  **  Looks  as  if 
he  had  been  out  on  the  tramp  for  a  month.  A  rough  customer 
for  that  poor  little  woman — her  master,  I  take  it.  She  had  a 
.child  in  her  arms,  too,  poor  soul!" 

Away  beyond  the  village  the  dusty  high-road  wound  tortu- 
OVLBly,  and  lost  itself  in  bleak  marshes  and  ghastly  commons. 
Dark  clumps  of  woodland  dotted  the  way — spots  made,  one 
might  think,  for  foul  murders,  so  lonely  and  desolate  were 
they.  And  still  on  and  on  spread  these  interminable  miles  that 
lay  between  them  and  the  seaport  of  Plymouth. 

Another  hour  and  another — midnight  now.  The  menacing 
wind  had  arisen  higher  and  shriller;  the  moon  had  hidden  her 
^Killid  disk  behind  the  black,  scuddmg  clouds;  the  summer 


\ 


I 


8 


WHO    WINS  i 


■tonn  was  very  near.    Even  the  dull,  brute  nature  of  the  man 
could  not  fail  to  road  the  palpable  signs  of  the  coming  tempest. 

"  Curse  the  weather!"  ho  growled,  furiously,  shakmg  his 
fist  impotently  at  the  blackening  sky.  **  It'w  agin  me,  like  all 
the  rest.  Mv  feet  feel  like  lumps  of  raw  llesh,  and  Fm  one 
bundle  of  aches  and  pains  from  head  to  foot.  I  wish  I  had 
never  deserted.  Grilling  out  yonder  in  India,  and  fighting 
those  black  devils  of  Sepoys,  was  better  than  this.  I'll  go  no  ' 
further  to-night."  m       ^         , 

He  halted  suddenly  and  faced  the  woman.  She  stopped 
when  he  did,  but  still  never  opened  her  lii)s. 

*'  Do  you  hear,  vou  white-faced  cat?  I'm  going  to  stop  here 
till  day-break,  and  the  storm  bo  hanged!  Sit  down  there,  you 
and  your  brat,  and  watch  till  I  wake." 

They  were  beside  a  thick  holly  hedge,  with  sheltering  trees 
above,  and  a  soft  carpet  of  velvety  moss  beneath.  He  flung 
himself  heavily,  with  a  groan  and  a  curse,  upon  the  fragrant 

bed. 

"  Down  with  you  there!"  ho  growled  as  if  to  a  dog;  "  and 
not  a  word  out  of  your  miserable  head,  if  you  don't  want  it 
broke!    Wake  me  at  day-dawn.     D'ye  hear?" 

"  I  hear,"  she  spoke,  at  last,  in  a  hard,  hollow  voice. 
**  Sleep,  brute,  beast,  unworthy  the  name  of  man,  and  sleep 
your  last.     You  will  never  see  day-break  again!" 

The  closing  words  were  spoken  under  her  breath,  but  the 
man  would  not  have  heard  them  had  they  been  uttered  aloud. 
Before  his  head  had  well  touched  the  sward  he  was  dead 
asleep.  % 

Then  the  woman  arose,  white  as  death,  terrible  as  doom. 
She  laid  the  child  on  a  little  hillock,  without  one  look  at  its 
quiet,  sleeping  face,  and  glanced  around  for  what  she  wanted. 
She  found  it  near — as  near  as  if  Satan  had  laid  it  ready  to  her 
hand — a  long,  sharp-pointed  stone,  deadly  as  a  dagger.  She 
lifted  it  and  bent  over  the  slee})ing  man  breathing  heavily  and 
.snoring  in  his  sleep.  His  hat  had  fallen  ofi';  his  grizzled, 
bearded,  sunburned  face  was  upturned  to  the  night  sky. 

"  And  I  loved  this  brute  once!"  the  woman  said  in  a  hiss- 
ing whisper;  *'  and  I  gave  up  all  for  him — home,  parents, 
friends,  heart,  soul!  Why,  it  is  no  more  crime  to  kill  him 
than  to  shoot  down  a  mad  dog!" 

With  the  horrible  words  she  lifted  the  heavy  stone  and 
struck  him  with  all  her  might  upon  the  temple.  There  was 
one  convulsive  bounds  one  gurgling  cry,  a  spout  of  hot,  red 
blood,  and  then — 

The  Tivoman  turned  away  with  a  sickening  shudder  of  horror 


WHO    WXiTB? 


f  the  man 
y  tempest, 
aking  hia 
le,  like  all 
1  Fm  one 
ish  I  had 
d  fighting  ' 
ril  go  no  ' 

le  stopped 

)  stop  here 
there,  you 

Bring  trees 

lie  flung 

le  fragrant 

log;  "  and 
I't  want  it 

[low  voice. 
,  and  sleep 

th,  but  the 
ered  aloud. 
J  was  dead 

3  as  doom. 
3  look  at  its 
she  wanted. 
•eady  to  her 
igger.  She 
heavily  and 
liis  grii'.zled, 
b  sky. 

d  in  a  hiss- 

ne,  parents, 

to  kill  him 

r  stone  and 

There  was 

of  hot,  red 

ler  of  horror 


and  repulsion  from  what  lay  before  her.  It  was  very  sHll, 
too — awfully  still;  there  was  no  need  to  repeat  the  blow.  t>he 
flung  the  stone  away,  took  one  last  backward  glance  at  the 
F!f?ppii)g  child,  one  last,  shuddering  gaze  at  that  other  still 
form,  then  turned  swiftly  and  flitted  away  into  the  night. 

Ik'foro  niDining  the  storm  burst  in  rain  and  thunder  and 
wind.  A  violent  storm,  too  violent  to  last.  It  passed  with 
the  nifi^lit.  The  sun  rose  in  its  splendor  and  looked  down  in 
hiilescribtible  glory  on  thsit  most  awful  of  all  sights,  the  up- 
turned face  of  a  murdered  man. 


CHAPTER  11. 

CYRIL    TREVANION. 

The  play  that  night  was  a  French  vaudeville,  and  the  the- 
ater was  one  of  the  third-rate  order,  on  the  Surrey  side  of  the 
Thames.  It  vvaa  one  of  tliose  clanceable,  singable  little  com- 
edies where  the  jokes  are  as  broad  as  they  are  long,  and  the 
seedy  actors  interpolate  lengthy  improvisations  of  their  own 
into  the  original  passages — one  of  the  short-skirtea,  semi-nude 
Black  Crook  and  White  Fawn  kidney  so  common  in  these 
latter  days.  The  gay  little  vaudeville  had  had  quite  a  lengthy 
run.     This  was  its  last  night,  and  the  house  was  crowded. 

The  throng  in  the  pit  was  the  roughest  of  railway  navvies, 
soldiers,  sailors,  and  all  the  rag-tag  of  creation.  There  were 
decently  dressed  people  in  the  gallery,  and  a  sprinkling  of 
shabby  gentility  in  the  wretched  little  boxes,  but  such  as  they 
were,  the  house  was  fllJcd.  Was  it  not  the  benefit  and  the 
farewell  night  of  Miss  Kose  Adair?  and  was  not  Miss  Kose 
Adair  the  prettiest,  the  cleverest,  the  most  charming  little 
actress  that  ever  set  navvies  and  news-boys  mad  with  love  and 
delightr* 

Clustered  by  themselves  in  the  stage-boxes  tvere  some  half 
dozen  young  officers — magnificent  fellows,  as  regarded  in  com- 
parison with  the  rest  of  the  house — sporting  eye-glasses,  and 
staring  at  the  people  about  them  through  those  lorgnettes  with 
undisguised  contempt.  Very  young  oliicers,  with  the  callow 
down  yet  green  on  their  boyish  chins,  their  hair  parted  down 
the  middle,  a  tendency  to  drawl,  but  wonderfully  and  ele- 
gantly got  up  by  the  best  AVest  End  tailors.  Very  harmless 
young  heroes,  their  maiden  swords  still  unfleshed — their 
maiden  pistols  preserving  their  pristine  glitter — dainty  carpet 
knights,  great  in  the  dance,  and  mighty  at  the  mess-table. 
They  lounged  about  the  bozes,  amusing  themselves  with  ear* 


—  ,0**^* 


i 


WHO    WINS? 


castic  criticisms  on  their  neighbors,  while  waiting  for  the  cur- 

tain  to  rise.  ,  .     ,    i    , 

**  Saw  Trevaiiion  to-day,''  lisped  one  white-Iashed  ensign, 
tightening  his  belt,  '*  ridinff  down  the  Row  with  Lady  Clara 
Keppel.  What  hick  tlie  fellow  has!  Suns  himself  in  the 
smiles  of  high-born  beanty  all  day,  and  in  the  lovely  light  of 
httle  Roira's  black  eyes  all  evening." 

"Don't  cull  her  Rosa,"  another  interjected,  testily;  *' it 
Bmacks  so  confoundedly  of  negro  minstrelsy.  Luck  I  I  be- 
lieve you!  Trcvanioii's  one  of  those  fellows  bom  with  a  golden 
spoon  in  their  mouths,  lie  is  the  heir  of  Monkswood  llall 
and  Trevanioii  Park,  the  two  finest  places  in  Sussex,  with  a 
clear  rent-roll  of  fifteen  thouyand  a  year.  His  governor's  a 
trump.  I  wish  mine  could  see  his  parental  duties  in  the 
money  line  half  as  clearly." 

**  And  Trevanion's  sovereigns  flow  like  water,"  a  third  said, 
"  while  better  men — myself  and  most  of  you  fellows — haven't 
possessed  one  between  us  for  the  last  six  months.  I  did  my 
first  bill,  I  remember,  at  seven  years  old,  on  the  cover  of  my 
spelling-book,  and  I  liave  done  bills  and  bill-discounters  ever 
since  with  a  perseverance  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  And  they 
say  he's  going  to  marry  Rosie." 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  his  last  remark. 

**  Don't  be  maudlin,  Stanley.  A  man  may  not  marry  hi? 
grandmother — no  more  may  he  marry  a  little  danseuse,  par- 
ticularly at  the  innocent  age  of  nineteen.  Not  but  that  Misa 
Rose  Adair — I  wonder  what  the  little  girl's  bond-fide  name  is: 
— is  pretty  enough  and  sparkling  enough  to  almost  warrant 
such  folly.  Trevanion's  deucedly  spooney  about  her,  there's 
no  doubt  about  it;  but  there'll  be  no  marrying  or  giving  in 
marriage — take  my  word  for  it,  Stanley.  He  comes  of  a  race 
as  proud  as  the  devil,  and  nearly  as  diabolical." 

"  They  say  the  man  who  spoke  English  at  the  Tower  of 
Babel  was  named  Trevanion.  But  hold  up!  *  Lo!  the  con- 
quering hero  comes!'  " 

With  the  last  word  the  door  opened,  and  Lieutenant  Cyril 
Paget  Trevanion,  of  the  — th  Hussars, .  stood  before  his 
brother  knights.  Younger  than  even  those  youthful  warriors 
— barely  nineteen — but  towering  above  the  tallest  of  them  bv 
a  full  head,  and  superb  in  Ris  fresh  young  manhood.  Tall, 
strong,  black-browed,  wilh  the  darkly  handsome  face  of  the 
handsome,  hot-blooded  Trevanions — flashing  black  eyes,  and 
the  magnificent  proportions  of  a  muscular  Apollo.  As  he  en- 
tered, the  bell  tinkled,  the  lights  flashed  np,  the  curtaioi  roiOi 


T-;c 


WHO   WINS? 


11 


>r  the  our- 

Bd  ensign, 
^aiiy  Clara 
self  in  the 
i\y  light  of 

estily;  *'  it 
ok  I  I  be- 
ll a  golden 
wood  llall 
sex,  with  a 
overnor's  a 
ies  in  the 

,  third  said, 
s — haven't 

1  did  my 
over  of  my 
nnters  ever 

And  they 


marry  hi? 
iseiise,  par- 
it  that  Miss 
(le  name  isf 
ost  warrant 
her,  there's 
or  giving  in 
es  of  a  race 

le  Tower  of 
>1   the  con- 

;enant  Cyril 
before  his 
fill  warriors 
of  them  by 
lood.  Tall, 
face  of  the 
k  eyes,  and 
As  he  en- 
iurtain  roaOi 


the  orchestra  crashed  out,  and  Miss  Rose  Adair,  the  goddess 
of  the  evening,  bounded  li^'iiUy  on  the  stage. 

A  thunder  of  applause  greeted  the  appearance  cf  their  favor- 
ite— her  last  appearance,  as  tiiey  knevv.  A  HJender  little 
creature — a  mere  fairy  sprite,  M'itii  luminous-  dark  eyes  and  a 
wonderful  fall  of  yellow-brown  hair.  With  tho^e  amber-drip" 
ping  tresses  went  a  skin  of  pearly  whitencsL',  just  tinted  ever 
BO  taintly  on  the  oval  cAeeks  with  rouge.  As  Mile.  Ninon, 
the  witching  hiiW.  f/ri{<c/te — singing,  dancing,  coquetting — she 
acted  con  amove — filled  the  house  with  tumults  of  applause, 
and  covered  herself  with  bouquets  and  glory.  More  than  once 
the  great  dark  eyes  flashed  electric  glances  at  the  group  of 
young  oflficers — personal  friei'.ds,  all,  of  Miss  Adair — flashed 
ofteucst  of  all  on  stalwart  Cyril  Trevanion,  as  ho  towered  like 
Saul,  the  King,  above  the  heads  of  his  fellow-men. 

The  vaudeville  was  over.  Singing  and  smiling  to  the  last, 
the  lovely  Rose  sung  and  smiled  herself  off  the  stage.  The 
young  officers  had  flung  their  eh  borate  bouquets,  and  Cyril 
Trevanion,  with  a  smile  on  his  1  andsome  face,  had  drawn  a 
knot  of  Russian  violets  from  his  '»utton-hole,  and  threw  them 
last  of  all.  And  Rose  Adair  had  lifted  the  violets,  as  she  van- 
ished, with  one  parting  flash  of  her  eyes  at  the  donor — one 
parting,  electric  smile. 

**  Oh,  my  prophetic  soul!"  growled  Ensign  Stanley,  "what 
did  I  tell  you  fellows!''  I  say,  Trevanion,  the  talk  at  the  club 
is  that  you  are  going  to  make  a  wife  of  Rose  and  a  noodle  of 
yourself.     Why,  the  beggar's  gone!" 

**  And  very  lucky  for  you  that  ho  has.  Trevanion 's  a  dead 
shot,  and  not  the  man  to  be  patiently  stigmatized  as  a  noodle. 
He's  gone  to  drive  to  Brompton  with  Miss  Adair.  VcBvirtisf 
Let  us  go,  you  fellows.  We  shall  see  the  lovely  Rose  no  more." 
The  last  speaker  was  quite  right.  Lieutenant  Trevanion  wag 
driving  swiftly  along  to  Miss  Adair's  Brompton  cottage,  while 
the  youthful  officers  were  seeking  their  clubs.  The  little 
actress,  muffled  in  furred  wraps — for  the  October  night  was 
black  and  bitter — cuddled  comfortably  beside  him,  as  one  well 
used  to  being  there. 

'*  And  you  really  go  to-morrow.  Rose?" 

'*  I  really  do,  Lieutenant  Trevanion — back  to  dear  Pans — 
charming  Paris.  One  can  not  endure  your  horrible  Englif** 
climate  forever,  and  besides — " 

She  broke  ofiF. 

**  Besides  what.  Rose?" 

**  Oh,  nothing!"  with  a  littlu  langh — "  only  no  one  will  re- 
gret me  here^  and  there  I  have  many  friends." 


"WHO    WINS? 

You  have  »*^any  friends  wherever  you  go.     Bat  no  one  to 
regret  you  here.  Rose?    You  know  better  than  that.     Don't 

***  Don't  go!  The  king  wills  it!"  with  a  ecornful  little 
lai^gh.  "  I  shall  go  to-morrow  morning,  sir,  as  fast  as  railway 
and  steamer  can  take  me,  back  to  my  beloved  Paris,  where  / 
the  sky  is  blue,  the  sun  shines,  and  one  has  friends  who  really  : 
care  for  one.  There's  a  good  time  (3oming.  Pending  that 
good  time— here  we  are  at  home,  so  don't  talk  nonsense,  bi;t 
come  in.  It's  nearly  midnight,  and  not  proper,  I  dare  say; 
but  Mrs.  Dobbs,  my  keeptr,  is  up,  and  Mrs.  Dobbs  is  a  very 
dragon  of  propriety.  You  shall  have  one  last  little  supper 
with  me,  and  then  it  shall  be,  *  Fare  thee  well,  and  if  for- 
ever,'etc.    Come." 

Lieutenant  Trevanion  needed  no  second  invitation.  The 
lighted  windows  of  the  little  cottage  looked  very  invitmfif 
against  the  black  October  night,  and  the  coquettish,  backWv-'.rd 
glances  of  its  youthful  mistress  more  inviting  still. 

Ee  fastened  his  cab-horse  to  the  gate  first,  wher^'  that  trusty 

.  Bteed  had  many  a  time  been  fastened  before,  and  followed 

Miss  Adair  into   the  house.     She  led  him  into  o  brilliantly 

lighted  little  room,  where  a  coal-fire  glowed  genially,  and  rose- 

colored  curtains  shut  out  the  cheerless  night. 

Under  the  chandelier  a  supper-table,  set  for  two,  glittered 
with  glass  and  silver.  For  an  actress  in  a  third-rate  London 
theater.  Miss  Rose  Adair  knew  how  to  live. 

She  threw  her  furred  wraps  into  the  arms  of  a  little  plump 
old  woman  who  came  forward  to  gi-eet  her,  and  merged  in  a 
dress  of  bright  purple  trimmed  with  rich  white  fur. 

Over  this  glowing  robe  her  amber  hair  fell  in  a  glittering 
shower  to  a  tiny  waist  you  might  have  spanned  with  one  hand. 
And  the  great  black  eyes  had  a  streaming  light,  the  rosebud 
mouth  dancing  with  smiles,  and  she  was  so  sparklingly  bright 
and  pretty  that  it  was  a  delight  only  to  look  at  her. 

"  Is  supper  quite  read\^,  Mrs.  Dobbs?  Pray  say  yes,  you 
old  treasure  Oj.  housekeepers,  for  I  am  absolutely  famished. 
Kot  romantic,  Mr.  Trevanion,  but  true.  You  know  your  de- 
-^ree.  Lieutenant  Trevanion,  sit  down  and  make  yourself  de- 
lightful, for  the  last  time.  In  an  hour  precisely,"  glancing 
coquettishly  at  her  watch,  "  I  shall  turn  you  out." 

"  Merciless  as  usual.  Turn  me  out  to-night,  and  I  will 
come  back  to-morrow." 

"  And  find  me  gone.  Will  you  carve  these  birds?  They 
look  tempting.    And  I  will  help  myself  to  a  glass  of  this  Mar* 


WHO    WINS? 


13 


t  no  one  to 
lat.     Don't 

rnful  little 
t  as  railway 
^aris,  where 

who  really 
'ending  that 
)ii8ense,  br.t 
dare  say; 
bs  is  a  very 
ittle  supper 

and  if  for- 

ation.  The 
ery  invitmsf 
h,  backw^^rd 

;  that  trustv 
md  followed 

a  brilliantly 
lly,  and  rose- 

wo,  glittered 
rate  London 

little  plump 
'  merged  in  a 
r. 

1  a  glittering 
th  one  hand. 
,  the  rosebud 
lingly  bright 
?r. 

say  yes,  you 
3ly  famished, 
now  your  de- 
)  yourself  ue- 
y,"  glancing 


}} 


t,  and  I  will 

birds?    They 
}  of  this  Mar* 


wchino— the  water  of  life.  And,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dobbs,  you 
may  go." 

Mrs.  Dobbs  went,  and  Miss  Adair  and  her  guest  eat  their 
tete-d'iefe  supper — their  last,  as  she  took  care  to  remhid  him 
every  now  and  then.  And  how  beautiful  she  looked,  how 
biilliantlv  she  talked,  how  gayly  she  laughed — silvery  little 
peals,  showiiig  pearl-white  teeth!  How  bewitching  she  was 
ttltogether,  words  were  weak  to  tell! 

Always  fascinating,  to-night  she  outdid  herself.  And 
whether  it  was  the  heady  nature  of  his  bright  little  hostess's 
wines,  or  the  nio-e  delicious  intoxication  of  her  witcheries  and 
loveliness,  or  both  combined,  Cyril  Trevanion  completely  lost 
his  head,  and  almost  before  he  knew  it,  found  himself  passion- 
ately, and  a  little  incoherently,  telling  her  he  loved  her  madly, 
and  begging  her  to  be  his  wife. 

Miss  Adair  only  laughed  in  her  tinkling  way,  and  shook 
back  her  magnificent  curling  hair. 

"  You  donH  mean  it,  Lieutenant  Trevanion.     WhatI   the 

Erince  of  Monkswood  and  the  lord  of  Trevanion  marry  a  little 
lOndon  actress,  who  never  had  a  grandfather!  Why,  the 
ghosts  of  all  the  dead  and  gone  Trevanions  would  rise,  grim 
and  revengeful,  ou':  of  the  family  vaults,  to  wreak  thair  fury 
on  the  hep'l  of  their  degenerate  descendant!  A  Trevanion 
.  make  a  low  marriage!  It  is  past  one,  mon  a?ni  !  Let  us  shake 
hands,  and  say  good-bye." 

"  I  will  never  say  good-bye  until  you  promise  to  be  my 
wife.  Don't  laugh  at  me.  Rose.  I  must  marry  you.  I  will 
marry  youj  and  all  the  Trevanions  ami  their  pride  may  go — " 

A  little  hand  flew  up  and  covered  his  morth. 

**  Don't  swear,  please;  I  don't  like  it.  You  will  laugh  at 
your  folly  to-morrow.     Say  good-night,  and  go." 

"  Never  without  your  promise.  Rose.  Rose,  I  thought  yon 
loved  me?" 

The  pretty  face  drooped  against  his  coat  sleeve. 
i      '*  You  know  I  do,"  m  a  reed-like  whisper. 
^      '*  Then  be  my  wife.   Instead  of  going  to  France  to-morrow^ 
come  with  me  to  Scotland." 

*'  You  reallv  mean  it,  Cyril?" 

"  I  shall  blow  my  brains  out  if  you  don'tl  Say  you  will 
come.  Rose.  I  love  you  madly.  I  can*t  let  you  go.  Say  you 
will  come!" 

**  To  Scotland?  But  o,  Scotch  marriage  is  no  marriage; 
and,  besides,  you  are  a  minor,  and  can  not  legally  contract  a 
marriage  anywhere." 

*' In  Heaven's  name!  hoW  many  cbjections  will  yon  nusfl^ 


,-  .i^  ,■ ,.  <.*4*^>,4m-^  t- 


34 


WHO    WllfS  ? 


,.% 


;    ■ 


Eose?"  the  young  man  cried,  flushed  and  impetuons.  *  'I! 
the  Scotch  marriage  does  not  suit  you,  we  can  easily  be  re- 
married upon  our  return  to  England;  and,  as  for  being  a  min- 
or, there  will  be  no  one  to  dispute  the  legality  of  our  union. 
Not  ray  father— he  never  refused  me  anything  yet.  He  is  not 
likely  to  oegin  now." 

**  Oh,  Cyril  I  But  this  is  not  like  anything  else.  Men  hay© 
disinherited  only  sons  for  less." 

*'  My  father  will  not.  And,  besides,  he  can  not.  Monks- 
wood  Priory  is  entailed— comes  to  me,  with  its  fertile  acres,  if 
I  were  disinherited  to-morrow.  1  will  listen  to  no  more  objec- 
tions. Rose.  You  wii^t  say  yes— you  nmst  be  my  wifel  I 
love  you  madly!  I  can  noi  live  without  you.  My  beautiful 
Rose,  look  up,  and  say,  '  Cyril,  I  love  you,  and  I  will  go  with 
you  to-morrow!'  " 

He  bene  over  her,  his  handsome  face  flushed,  hot,  red,  his 
eyes  glowing,  alight  with  wine  and  love  and  excitement.  She 
raised  her  dainty,  drooping  head  at  his  bidding,  and  looked 
him  fuUin  the  face,  a  glittermg  brightness  in  her  large  dark 
eyes. 

"  I  love  you,  Cyril,"  she  repeated,  **  and  I  will  go  with  you 
to-morrow.  Earth  holds  no  dearer  lot  for  me  than  to  be  your 
wife.  But  if  you  repent,  later,  remember  I  have  warned  you." 

**  I  will  never  repent!"  he  cried,  with  a  lover's  rapturous 
kiss.  **  Our  honey-moon  will  last  until  our  heads  are  gray. 
In  all  broad  England  there  is  not  another  such  happy  man  a» 
Cyril  Trevanion." 

She  turned  away  her  head  to  conceal  a  smile—-  a  smilo 
strangely  akin  to  derision.     It  was  gon^  like  a  flash. 

**  And  now  I  must  turn  you  out,"  she  said,  gayly.  **  I 
have  much  to  do  between  this  and  dny-dawn.  Whether  one 
goes  to  ^1  ance  or  to  Gretna  GreeU;;  one  must  pack  up.  It  is 
shockingly  late  besides-  Mrs.  Grundy  will  bo  horrified.  For 
rity's  sake,  go  at  once!" 

r  She  pushed  him  playfully  to  the  door.  The  black  October 
night  was  blacker  and  chillier  than  ever,  and  the  bleak,  wet 
wind  blew  damply  in  their  faces.  Miss  Adair  shivered  audibly. 

**  I  don't  envy  you  your  drive  back,"  she  said;  **and  the 
rain  will  overtake  you  if  ;  ou  don't  hurry.  We  are  likely  to 
run  away  in  a  deluge  to-morrow." 

**  Blissful  to-morrow!"  exclaimed  Cyril  Trevanion.  "  Come 
rain  and  lightning  and  tempest,  so  that  they  bring  meijou,  I 
shall  thank  them.     For  the  !ast  time,  good-bye  and  go.xl- 
night." 
v^  A  lover-like  embrace;  then  the  young  man  sprung  lightly 


WHO    WWCSf 


10 


into  his  night-cab  and  whirled  away.  Eose  Adair  stood  in  the 
door-way  until  he  disappeared,  dei4)ite  the  raw  blowing  of  the 
chill  morning  wind.  In  tho  darlmess  her  pretty  face  wore  a 
triumphant  glow. 

*'  I  have  conquered  I"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "  I  will 
be  Cyril  Trevanion^s  wife,  as  I  knew  from  the  first  I  would. 
Poor  fool!  And  bethinks  I  care  for  him — a  stupid  boy  of 
nineteen !  The  old  life  may  go  now.  Mrs.  Cyril  Trevanion, 
of  Monkswood  Hall,  may  look  upon  tho  past  aa  a  horrible 
dream,  over  and  gone!" 

On  the  close  of  the  third  day  a  post-chaise  rattled  up  to  the 
door  of  an  Aberdeen  hotel,  and  Lieutenant  Trevanion  handed 
out  his  bride.  The  "  Scotch  mist  '^  hung  clammy  over  every- 
thing, the  sky  was  of  lead,  the  coming  night  was  bleak  and 
drear;  but  the  face  of  the  young  oflicer  was  brighter  than  a 
sunset  sky.  Was  he  not  a  bridegroom  of  four-and-twenty 
hours'  standing,  and  was  not  this  radiant  little  beauty  beside 
him  his  bride? 

**  They  will  show  you  to  your  room,  my  darling,"  he  said. 
**  I  will  join  you  presently.  Here  is  your  traveling-bag.  It 
might  hold  the  crown  diamonds  by  its  weight  and  the  care 
you  take  of  it.     The  servant  will  take  it." 

**  I  will  take  it  myself." 

She  turned  her  back  abruptly  upon  him  as  she  spoke,  and 
followed  the  servant  upstairs.  She  dismissed  the  woman  the 
Tiioment  she  entered  the  room,  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door. 
The  boxes  had  been  sent  up.  She  knelt  down  at  once  before 
one  of  them,  and  unlocked  and  unstrapped  it. 

"  I  will  conceal  it  here/'  she  said.  "  He  is  not  in  the  least 
likely  to  find  it,  in  any  case;  but  it  is  safer  here." 

She  unfastened  her  traveling-bag  and  drew  forth  the  con- 
tents, whose  weight  and  her  solicitude  about  it  had  puzzled 
Lieutenant  Trevanion.  It  contained  but  one  thing — a  brightly 
burnished  copper  box,  securely  locked  and  clasped.  The  little 
Dride  thrust  this  box  out  of  sight  among  the  garments  in  the 
trunk. 

**  *  Safe  bind,  safe  find.'  While  yoii  are  secure  /  am  secure. 
I  don' I  think  Cyril  Trevanion  will  ever  find  me  out.  The 
day  that  brings  you  to  light  sees  the  hist  of  Rose  Trevanion. 
Rose  Trevanion!  A  new  name,  a  new  alias  !  How  many  I 
have  borne!  Rose  Lemoine,  Eofo  Dawson,  Rose  Adair;  and 
now — last,  brighte-^t,  and  best — high-sounding  Trevanion  I 
What  will  be  the  next,  I  wonder,  and  which  among  them  all 
will  they  carve  vu  my  tombstone  F'' 


)j> 


16 


WHO    WINS? 


CHAPTEE  IIL 

AT     MON'KSWOOD. 

*'  And  it  all  ends  here!  My  ambitious  dreams,  my  bound- 
less pride,  my  grand  aspirations  for  him— it  all  ends  here!  In 
the  hour  when  I  loved  him  dearest,  I  would  sooner  have  slaitt 
him  with  my  own  hands  than  lived  to  see  him  fall  so  low!" 

He  was  aii  old  man,  yet  grandly  erect  in  his  sixtieth  year; 
straight  as  a  Norway  pine,  broad-shouldered,  deep-chested, 
royal-browed  and  bright-eyed,  as  it  was  in  the  nature  of  the 
Trevanions  to  be.  He  was  General  Trevanion,  of  Monkswood 
Priory,  or  Monkswood  Hall,  as  it  was  oftener  named,  and  he 
held  in  his  hand  an  open  letter  from  his  only  son,  Cyril. 

The  letter  told  him  of  that  only  son's  marriage— dwelling 
with  lover-like  rapture  on  his  bride's  peerless  beauty,  her 
transcendent  sweetness  and  charms.  It  told  him  that  she  was 
the  loveliest,  the  most  innocent,  the  purest,  the  gentlest  of  her 
sex;  but  it  also  told  him  the  awful  fact  that  there  was  no 
withholding— that  she  was  an  actress. 

"  *  Beautiful  and  pure  as  an  angel  from  heaven!'  "  the  old 
man  quoted  from  the  letter,  with  a  bitter  sneer — "  this  spot- 
less dansetise,  this  artless  cherub  from  the  boards  of  a  third- 
.rate  London  theater!  It  ussd  to  be  our  boast  that  the  Tre- 
vanion blood  never  bred  fools  or  cowards.  It  has  bred  both  in 
my  son  Cyril.  Son!  From  this  hour  he  is  no  longer  son  of 
mine.  Yet  he  is  not  quite  a  coward,  either,  or  he  would 
hardly  dare  to  face  me  here." 

For  the  open  letter  told  him  that  the  writer  was  coming  to 

*'  Beard  the  lion  in  his  den; 
The  Douglas  in  his  hall." 

And  that,  within  a  very  few  hours  after  its  receipt.  General 
Trevanion  might  lock  for  a  penitential  visit  from  his  heir. 

**  I  will  not  fetch  Rose  with  me,  father,"  the  young  man 
wrote.  *'  I  know  what  a  crime  a  low  marriage  is  in  your  eyes. 
I  know  how  you  will  revolt  at  first  from  the  idea  of  an  actress. 
But  only  wait  until  you  see  her,  my  father,  in  her  exquisite 
beauty  and  youth,  and  grac(  and  artlessness,  and  you  will  love 
her  almdst  as  dearlv  as  I  do." 

The  old  lion  read  this  passage  aloud  again,  and  laughed  out- 
right in  the  bitter  intensity  of  his  scorn. 

"Fool!  idiot!  drivekr!"  he  cried,  with  p'lssionate  con- 
tempt, his  fierce  black  eyes  ablaze.     '*  I  could  curse  the  houi 


.*«« 


WHO    WINS? 


17 


in  which  his  mother  gave  birth  to  so  besotted  an  imbecile  I 
What  judgment  has  fallen  on  the  Trevanions,  that  the  lasti 
of  their  name — one  of  the  proudest  and  noblest  that  ever  old 
England  boasted — should  render  himself  an  object  of  derision 
to  gods  and  men?  The  last  of  his  race,  did  I  say?  Nay, 
S^^bil  is  that — and  by  the  eternal  Heaven!  Sybil  shall  inherifc 
every  shilling  I  possess,  every  acre  1  command.  The  angelic 
actress  from  Drury  Lane  may  soar  back  to  the  celestial  re^ 
gions  she  hails  from,  with  the  idiotic  spooney  of  nineteen  ehe 
has  duped  into  marrying  her,  for  all  she  will  ever  reign  in 
Trevanion,  Sybil  Lemox  shall  be  my  heiress,  and  he  shall  not 
inherit  the  price  of  a  rope  to  hang  himself!" 

He  dashed  the  letter  fiercely  aside,  and  started  up,  pacing 
up  and  down.  The  grand  old  face  was  stormy  with  rage;  the 
fiery  dark  eyes,  that  never  lov/ered  their  light  to  friend  or  foe, 
flashing  with  impotent  passion.  Kage,  grief,  shame,  all  dis- 
torted the  massive  countenance,  and  the  sinewy  hands  clinched 
until  the  nails  bled  the  palms. 

**  And  he  dare  come  here!  he  dare  face  me!  I  don't  know 
what  shall  keep  me  from  shooting  him  down  like  a  dog!" 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  magnificent  length  of  the  library, 
quite  alone  in  his  impotent  storms  of  fury.  A  spacious  and 
splendid  apartment,  the  wainscot  lined  with  books  from  floor 
to  ceiling,  busts  of  grand  old  Greek  poets  gazing  serenely  down 
on  the  lore  of  ages,  and  over  the  marble  chimney-piece  a 
clock,  with  Amphytrite  guiding  a  group  of  fiery  sea-horses,  in 
bronze. 

In  the  deep  fire-place  where,  for  four  hundred  years  the 
blaze  of  yule  had  risen  high  at  Christmas  time,  a  sea-coal  fire 
burned  now,  its  red  glow  fiashing  fitfully  on  the  dark  paneling 
and  wainscoting,  on  busts  and  pictures,  books  and  bronzes, 
quaint  old  Indian  and  Chinese  cabinets,  and  vases  as  high  aa 
your  head. 

The  library  was  lighted  by  one  vast  Tudor  window,  with 
cushioned  scats — a  window  that  was  a  study  in  itself,  and 
which  overlooked  a  wide  vista  of  velvet  lawn,  cool  depths  of 
fragrant  fern  and  underwood,  and  waving  belts  of  beech  and 
elm. 

A  grand  old  place  this  Monkswood  Hall — a  monEistery  once 
in  the  days  long  gone  when  there  had  been  monks  and  mon- 
asteries all  over  England,  before  the  Koyal  Bluebeard  and  his 
red-haired  daughter  came  to  banish  and  burn  and  behead. 
And  under  the  leafy  arcades  of  its  primeval  forest,  of  its  ma- 
jestic oaks,  and  towering  elm  and  copper  beech,  the  ghostly 
prior  who  had  ruled  there  last,  v/alked  still,  somber  and  aw* 


18 


WHO    WlWg 


ful,  with  cowl  and  gown,  in  the  stormy  moonlight  and  atfll 
black  dead  of  night.  And  some  ghostly  curso  had  fallen  on 
the  usurping  race  of  the  ''  bold,  bad  Trevanions;"  for  the  le- 
gend rail,  that  for  many  a  night  before  the  death  of  ths  head 
of  the  house,  a  solemn  bell  tolled  in  those  windy  turrets— an 
awful  bell,  that  no  mortal  eye  might  see,  no  mortal  hands 

might  ring. 

The  Prior's  Walk  lay  open  to  all — a  woodland  aisle,  where 
the  elms  met  above  your  head— where  the  nightingale  sung  o' 
nights,  and  the  sward  was  as  emerald  velvet — a  long  avtenuc  of 
green  beauty  and  delight,  and  a  short  cut  to  the  village.  Bui; 
for  all  its  loveliness  and  convenience,  there  were  few  in  all 
Speckhaven  who  cared  to  brave  the  ghostly  horrors  of  the 
Prior's  Walk  at  nightfall.  A  grand  and  stormy  old  place  this 
Monkswood— where  the  vstrong  Trevanions,  father  and  son, 
had  reigned  since  the  days  of  the  seventh  Henry — one  of  the 
show-places  of  the  county. 

The  short  November  day  was  rapidly  darkening  down,  and 
the  mystic  depths  of  fern  looked  illimitable  seen  from  the 
stately  Tudor  window.  The  clock,  above  which  the  fair  sea- 
goddess  guided  her  fierce  chargers,  pointed  to  half  past  four, 
and  as  tlie  night  drew  on  the  wind  roared  more  wildly  down 
the  vast  stacks  of  chimneys,  along  the  vast,  draughty  halls, 
and  around  the  numberless  gable  ends. 

General  Trevanion  glanced  impatiently  at  the  time-piece  as 
the  spectral  gloaming  came  on  apace;  his  massive  face  settled 
slowly  into  a  look  of  iron  grinmess  and  determination. 

"  He  must  soon  be  here,"  he  muttered,  under  his  breath. 
"  For  nineteen  years  every  desire  of  his  heart  has  been  granted 
almost  before  the  wish  was  expressed.  Now  he  will  see  how  a 
Trevanion  says  no." 

The  library  door  was  flung  wide  as  the  thought  crossed  his 
mind  *'  Master  Cyril,  sir,'''  announced  the  old  gray-haired 
butler,  and  noiselessly  withdrew.  General  Trevanion  stopped 
short  in  his  walk,  swung  round  and  faced  his  son.  The  young 
man  had  advanced  eagerly,  but  with  the  first  look  at  his  fa- 
ther's face,  he  halted,  hesitated,  stopped,  and  came  to  a  stand- 
still by  the  fire. 

The  old  lion  stood — a  large  w^riting-table  between  them — 
drawn  up  to  his  full  kii^gly  height,  his  head  thrown  back,  his 
proud  nostrils  dilated,  his  dark  eyes  flashing.  Cyril  Trevan- 
ion, very  pale,  but  altogether  dauntless,  encountered  that  look 
tmflinchingly.     So  they  met— father  and  son. ' 

The  young  man  was  the  firs';  to  speak. 
,.   **  You  have  received  my  letter,  sir?"  he  said  very  calinly. 


WHO  wursF 


19 


aisle,  where 


"  I  have  received  it    Here  it  is." 

He  crumpled  it  up  as  he  spoke,  and  fluug  it  straight  in  th0 
fire.     One  bright  flash  of  flame — then  it  was  gone. 

Oyril  Trevanion  turned  a  shade  paler  than  before;  but  the 
bold,  invincible  look  on  Lis  face  was  very  like  tha^.  on  General 
Tirevanion^s  own.  f 

*'  You  are  deeply  displeased,  sir,"  he  said^  still  very  quietly; ' 
**  I  expected  as  much.     But  wait  until  you  see  my  wire — my 
Rose.     Eftrth  holds  nothiiig  half  so  lovely — half  so  sweet  aa 
she  I    Even  the  crime  of  being  an  actress  will  be  forgotten 
and  forgiven  then.'' 

**  I  will  never  see  your  wife!"  General  Trevanion  answered, 
the  fierce  rage  within  him  only  showhig  in  the  working  of  his 
fiery  nostrils,  the  flashing  of  his  stormy  eyes.  *'  I  will  never 
see  your  wife,  never  see  you  !  I  disown  ycu — you  are  no 
longer  a  son  of  mine!  For  four  hundred  years  you  are  the 
first  of  our  race  whc  ever  made  a  mmdliance,  who  mixed  the 
pure  blood  with  the  filthy  puddle  in  an  actress's  veins.  No 
son  of  mine  shall  bring  disgrace  on  his  name  and  house,  and 
still  remain  my  son.  1  will  never  speak  to  you.  I  will  never 
see  you,  though  1  were  on  my  death-bed.  I  will  never  forgive 
you!  In  the  hour  you  cross  yonder  threshold,  through  which 
women,  with  royal  blood  in  their  hearts,  have  stepped  as 
brides — in  the  hour  you  go  forth  to  your  angel  of  the  dcmi- 
womle — your  seraph  of  the  caiiuille — you  are  as  dead  to  me  as 
though  the  cofifin  lid  had  closed  above  you  and  they  had  laid  you 
in  the  family  vault!  If  I  slew  you  where  you  stood,  your  low- 
lived blood  would  haixlly  wash  out  the  stain  of  your  disgrace!** 

He  stopped;  but  the  lightning  of  his  fiery  old  eyes  spoke 
more  eloquently  than  words.  He  stopped,  ior  the*  effort  to 
hold  his  passion  in  rein  and  speak  steadily  almost  suffocated 
him.  And  Cyril,  drawn  up  to  his  full  height,  his  handsome 
face  stormily  set,  his  dark  eyes  gleaming — tall,  strong,  princely 
— a  son  for  any  father's  heart  to  exult  in — stood  like  a  rock, 
listening  and  replying  not. 

**  I  have  let  you  come  here,"  his  father  went  on,  "  because 
from  my  own  lips  I  would  have  you  hear  your  fate.  Take 
your  strolling  player,  your  painted  ballet-dancer,  and  go  forth 
to  beggary,  if  you  like — a  stiver  of  my  money  you  will  never 
see  again.  Trevanion  Park  and  all  I  possess — your  mother's 
fortune  included — is  mine,,  to  do  with  as  I  will,  and  not  one 
farthing  will  you  ever  command,  though  you  were  dying  of 
hunger  at  my  gates.  Monkswood  is  entailed — Monkswood 
must  descend  to  you;  but  even  there  you  will  feel'the  weight 
of  my  vengeance.    I  will  lay  it  wastk-*  than  a  warren — Uw 


90 


WHO    WINS? 


13 


~\ 


\ 


timber  shall  be  felled— the  game  hunted  down  like  vermin— 
the  house  left  to  ruin  and  decay.  When  you  and  your  wife 
come  here  at  the  old  man's  death,  you  will  find  a  barren  waste 
and  four  gaunt  walls  to  call  your  homo— nothing  more.  I 
have  said  all  I  have  to  say— I  will  never  forgive  you  I  Sybil 
Lemox  shall  be  my  heiress— for  you— I  never  want  to  hear  of 
you,  dead  or  alive.     Go!** 

Cyril  Trevanion  had  spoken  but  twice  since  his  entrance 
into  the  room.  Kow,  at  the  llery  old  martinet's  thundering 
command,  he  turned  without  a  word.  He  knew  bis  father — 
not  fiercer  at  the  taking  of  Douro  or  Talavera — not  more 
deadly  at  the  grand  charge  of  Waterloo — had  that  clarion  voice 
of  command  led  to  the  death  or  the  victory.  He  knew  his 
father,  and  he  knew  himself,  and,  without  one  syllable  of  en- 
treaty or  expostulation  or  defiaiK^e,  he  looked  his  last  forever 
upon  his  father's  face,  and  went  forth  to  bravo  his  fate. 

He  left  the  library,  crossed  a  tesselated  pavement  of  white 
and  black  stone — down  a  sweeping  stair-way  of  slippery  oak, 
black  and  polished,  and  wide  enough  to  drive  up  the  proverbial 
coach-and-four.  The  vast  baronial  hall  of  the  manor,  with  ita 
gulfs  of  chimneys,  its  carved  stone  chimney-pieces,  so  lofty, 
that  there  must  have  been  giants  in  the  days  when  they  could 
be  used,  hung  with  family  portraits  by  Holbein  and  Van  Dyck 
— with  branching  antlers  of  red  deer,  suits  of  mail  that  strong 
old  warriors  of  the  Trevanion  blood  had  clanked  in  before  the 
walls  of  Antioch  in  the  Crusade  days  long  syne.  A  grand  and 
stately  old  entrance  hall  where  the  tide  of  wassail,  the  blaze  of 
yule  logs,  had  surged  high  many  a  merry  Christmas.  Massive 
doors  of  oak  opened  down  the  length  of  this  interminable  hall, 
and  through  some  of  these,  standing  ajar,  the  young  man 
caught  sight  of  long  vistas  of  splendor  and  color,  of  glowing 
draperies,  rich  carving,  and  gleaming  fire-light  pictures  of 
brightness  and  luxury,  to  dream  of  strangely  in  weary  years  to 
eome.  His  hand  was  on  the  door  to  depart,  wheuthe  shrill 
3ry  of  a  child  arrested  him — a  wild  cry  of  joy  and  surprise, 
and  the  next  instant  a  little  fairy  figure  came  flying  down  the 
stairs,  and  plumped  headlong  into  his  arms. 

**  Cyril  I  Cyril!  Cyril!"  a  perfect  scream  of  childish  ecstasy; 
"oh!  Cousin  Cyril!" 

"  Sybil!"  the  young  man  said,  catchiug  the  fairy  up,  and 
kissmg  her;  "my  dear  little  pet  Sybil!  This  is,  indeed,  an 
astonisher!  I  thought  you  had  gone  for  good  to  Scotland." 
^  *'  Mamma  is  here,  and  baby  Oiiarlcy — we  are  all  here  on  a 
visit.  But,  oh.  Cousin  Cyril!  I  didn't  know  you  were  coming! 
Uncle  Trevanion  never  told  me.     lou  will  stay  as  long  as  we 


WHO    WINS? 


n 


do,  won't  you?  Oh,  how  tall  and  handsome  you  are  I"  with 
little  gushes  of  impetuous  kissing.  **  And  how  glad  I  am 
that  you  are  here!" 

**  My  dear  little  Sybil/'  Cyril  said,  with  a  light  laugh, 
**  what  unconscious  havoc  I  have  been  making  with  your  five- 
year-old  heart  I    And  you  really  like  me  so  much  as  this?" 

"  Like  you!  I  love  you  better  than  anybody — ever  so  much 
better  than  brother  Charley.  But  then  Charley's  only  three 
years  old,  and  you're  a  great  big  man,  and  wear  a  lovely  uni- 
form, and  I  llko  big  men. " 

**  And  lovely  uniforms — highly  characteristic  of  the  sex! 
But  it  is  growing  dark,  my  fairy  princess,  and  if  I  am  to  catch 
the  seven-fJty  train  back  to  London,  it  is  high  time  I  was  on 
the  move.  The  fly  from  the  railway  is. waiting  for  me  just 
outside  the  gates. '^ 

"Going  back?    Oh,  Cyril!" 

*'  I  must,  my  pet,"'  the  lieutenant  said,  smiling  a  little 
sadl^  at  that  reproachful  cry.  "It  is  Hobson's  choice,  if  you 
know  what  that  is.  Say  good-bye  for  me  to  Lady  Lemox  and 
babv  Charley,  and  kiss  mo  yourself." 

I'll  go  with  you  to  the  gates.  Yes,  I  will!"  impetuously, 
as  she  saw  her  companion  about  to  object.  "  Wait  until  I 
get  my  cloak;  I  won't  be  a  minute."  \ 

She  darted  away  like  a  spirit — a  little,  slender  thing,  all  in 
white,  with  bright  brown  ringlets  down  to  her  slender  waist, 
and  great  wide  eyes  of  luminous  blackness. 

Gone  and  back  like  a  flash,  this  time  with  a  little  cloak  of 
scarlet  cloth,  the  hood  drawn  over  the  brown  curls,  and  the 
bright,  pretty  face  peeping  out  rosily  froni  the  hood. 

"Little  Red  Kiding-Hood,"  the  young  man  said,  "and  I 
am  the  Wolf.  Come  on,  my  fairy.  Very  polite  of  you,  I 
must  say,  to  escort  me  so  far.  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  seeing 
your  gentlemen  friends  to  the  entrance  gates.  Miss  Lemox?" 

"  No,"  said  the  fairy;  "  because  there  isn't  one  of  them 
half  so  big  or  so  beautiful  as  you.  Cousin  Cyril.  The  oflScers 
from  Speckhaven  come  here;  but  some  of  them  are  old,  and 
most  of  them  are  ugly,  and  I  don't  like  them  at  all.  Oh  I 
what  a  nice  evening  it  is,  and  how  sorry  I  am  you  are  going 
away!" 

They  were  walking  down  the  long,  winding  avenue  that  led 
to  the  portico  entrance  of  the  house,  the  stately  trees  meeting 
above  their  heads,  the  golden  stars  a-glitter  in  the  cloudlt^sa 
blue. 

Very  beautiful — mysteriously  beautiful — looked  the  black 


SI 


WHO   WDTBf 


t 


1 


f 


\M 


I 


ilepfchB  of  woodland,  the  yellow  groves  of  fern,  the  glimmering 
X>ol3  and  lakelets,  the  velvet  sweeps  of  sward. 

The  young  man  sighed  as  he  loDKed,  then  langhed. 

**  I  am  a  modern  Lara  going  forth  from  his  father's  halli, 
the  *  world  all  before  me  where  to  choose.'  And  my  little 
Sybil  is  sorry  I  am  going  away?  Well,  it  is  pleasant  to  know 
that,  even  though  you  do  usurp  my  rights  by  and  bv.  What 
a  charming  little  heiress  you  will  make,  my  pretty  Sybil,  and 
what  damage  those  big  black  eyes  and  ilowing  ringlets  will  do 
after  awhile!  You  don't  like"  the  oflicers  from  Speckhaven 
now,  but  you'll  change  your  mind  presently,  my  little  one, 
and  forget  even  the  existence  of  Cousin  Cyril." 

"Forget  you!"  cried  Sybil,  indignantly.  "You  know 
better  than  that.  I  wish  I  wore  grown  up  a  young  lady  now, 
and  then  you  would'  marry  me,  wouldn't  you,  Cyril?  'And  I 
might  go  with  you  always.  I  should  like  that.  I  should  like 
to  go  with  you  always,  and  go  with  you  everywhere." 

The  shrill  whistle  of  intense  amusement  with  which  Lieu- 
tenant Trevanion  greeted  this  piece  of  intelligence  scared  the 
nightingales  chanting  vespers  in  the  green  gloom. 

**  By  Jove!  for  a  young  lady  of  five  years  you  know  how  to 
pop  the  question  astoundingly.  Higiily  flattered  as  I  must  be 
Dy  your  honorable  intentions,  Miss  Lemox,  yet  permit  me  to 
decline.  This  is  not  leap  year,  and  matrimonial  propositions 
emanating  from  your  sex  are  not  for  an  instant  to  be  tol- 
erated. Besides,  my  precious  little  beauty,  1  have  one  wife 
already." 

Sybil's  black  eyes  opened  to  their  widest  ~uJ.  oefore  she 
could  express  her  surprise  or  disappointment,  there  started  out 
from  the  coppice  near  a  tall,  gaunt  old  woman — a  weird  fig«. 
ure,  half  clad,  with  naked  feet,  and  streaming  iron-gray  haii\ 
gleaming  eyes,  and  dusky  face. 

Sybil  recoiled  with  a  little  cr}'-,  more  angry  than  startled. 

"  It's  old  Hester — Cracked  Hester!"  she  said.  "  How  dare 
you  come  back,  after  what  Uncle  Trevanion  said  to  you  yes- 
terday? She  tried  to  steal  me  away,  Cyril,  and  she  snares  the 
rabbits;  and  uncle  says  he'll  have  her  transported  for  poach- 
ing, if  she  comes  here  any  more." 

"  He  says  it,  but  he  won't  do  it,  my  little  queen,"  replied 
the  woman  in  a  husky  treble,  harsh  and  shrill.  "  He  won't 
do  it;  for  I  know  his  secret,  and  the  curse  that  is  to  fall.  The 
Trevanions  have  flourished  long,  but  their  end  is  near.  The 
doom  is  at  hand;  and  then,  my  handsome  soldier — then,  my 
pretty  little  lady — look  to  yourselves!" 

Shtt  turned  away  with  a  tragical  sweep  of  one  bony  amv  • 


'■w 


le  glimmering 

hed. 

ftither's  halli. 
And  my  little 
asaiit  to  know 
id  bv.  What 
tfcy  Sybil,  and 

nglets  will  do 
n  Speckhaven 
iiy  little  one, 

'*  You  know 
mg  ladv  now, 
::!yril?    And  I 

I  should  like 
are/' 

1  which  Lieu- 
nce  scared  the 
1. 
L  know  how  to 

as  I  must  be 
permit  me  to 
.1  propositions 
mt  to  be  tol- 
bave  one  wife 

u'.  oefore  she 
U'e  started  out 
— a  weird  fig^ 
ron-gray  hau\ 

m.  startled. 

''  How  dare 
d  to  you  yes- 
she  snares  the 
ied  for  poach- 

lecn,"  replied 
"He  won't 
J  to  fall.  The 
is  near.  The 
ier — then,  my 

•  bony  amv  • 


WHO   WUiTlf  fl 

ipectrsl  glance  of  warning  out  of  the  gleaming  old  tyes— > 
turned  slowly  away,  chanting  as  she  went: 

*•  The  Doom  slinll  fall  on  Monkswood  Hall. 
Our  Lftdy  and  her  gmcel 
Dark  falls  llie  doom  upon  the  lost 
Fair  dau<;hler  of  the  race. 

••  The  bat  slmll  flif.  llie  owl  shnll  hoot, 
Grim  Ruin  stalks  with  hiisfe; 
The  Doom  shall  full  when  Monkswood  Hall 
Is  changed  to  Monkswood  Waste." 

"  She  always  sings  that,"  Sybil  whispered,  with  a  little 
ihiver.  "  But,  then,  she  is  mad,  poor  thingi  Here  we  are  at 
the  gates,  and  there  ia  your  tly.  Will  you  come  back  soon, 
Cyril?''  wistfully. 

**  I  may  never  come  back."  He  stooped  and  kissed  her 
tenderly.  *'  But  don't  quite  forget  me,  my  dear  little  Sybil, 
and,  remember,  I  will  always  have  a  tender  spot  in  my  heart 
for  you.  Come,  we  will  exchange  love  tokens,  little  one! 
Here  ia  this  ring.  Wear  it  round  your  neck  until  these  fairy 
fingers  grow  large  enough  for  it.  If  I  meet  you  a  score  of 
years  from  now,  a  stately  and  gracious  young  lady,  I  will 
know  Cousin  Cyril  is  still  remembered  by  this  token." 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  set  her  down. 

"  Will  you  be  afraid  to  return,  Sybil— afraid  of  Cracked 
Heater?" 

**  Oh,  no!    I  will  run  all  the  way.     And,  Cyril,  I  will  wear 

J^our  ring,  and  love  you  forever.     And  when  I  am  a  young 
ady,  please  come  back  for  me,  and  I  will  go  with  you  any- 
where in  the  wide  world." 

"  You  will  *  live  with  me  and  be  my  love,*  "  the  gay  husaar 
said,  laughing.  *'  It  wouldn't  be  proper,  Sybil,  unless  they 
introduce  polygamy  into  this  narrow-minded  country,  pend- 
ing your  growing  up.  Good-bye,  niy  little  one.  I  may  re- 
mm'd  you  of  all  this  in  years  to  come.  Meantime,  farewell— 
a  long  farewell — my  darling  little  Sybil." 

He  leaped  into  the  fly  and  was  gone,  and  the  pretty  fairy 
stood  regretfully  gazing  after  him,  with  a  solitaire  diamond 
flashing  in  her  hands — to  meet  again — how? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CYRIL  TREVANION  HEARS  THE  TRUTH. 


« 


But  he  will  surely  relent,  Cyril.     You  are  his  only  son." 
**  He  will  never  relent^  Bose.    You  don't  know  my  fa^ieii 


u 


WHO    WINS? 


Wo  Trovanions  arc  a  bitter  and  vindictive  race,  and  as  Shake- 
speare says,  *  Fathers  have  flinty  hearts;  no  i)rayer8  can  move 
them.'  No,  my  dear  little  bride,  all  hone  is  over  there.  I 
would  die  of  starvation  at  his  tliresholcl — die  ten  thousand 
deaths — before  I  would  ever  stoop  to  sue  to  him  more." 

**  And  sue  me  die,  too!"  Hose  Trevanion  said,  bitterly; 
**  for  it  will  come  to  that,  I  suppose.  You  have  notliing  but 
your  lieutenant's  pay — a  brilliant  prospect  for  the  future." 

They  were  at  Brighton,  whither  the  hussar  had  brought  hig 
bride,  walking  on  the  AVest  Cliff.  TJio  November  day  was 
shortening  fast;  a  chill  wind  blew  over  the  sea.  Few  were 
abroad  in  the  raw,  autumnal  twilight — those  few  strangers  to 
them.  He  had  brought  his  bride  to  Brighton — this  discarded 
heir — that  she  might  be  near,  in  case  his  father  consented  to 
see  her. 

That  hope  was  over  now.  He  had  but  just  returned  from 
that  fruitless  pilgrimage  to  Monkswood,  to  find  their  lodgings 
deserted  and  liis  three-weeks'  bride  sauntering  drearily  up  and 
down  the  Wiest  Clill. 

**  Or  I  may  go  on  the  stage  again— take  to  rouge  and 
spangles  once  more,  and  earn  the  daily  bread  and  damp  beel 
of  every-day  life,"  she  said,  still  more  bitterly.  **  Other  wom- 
en of  my  profession  do  it,  and  have  done  it — why  not  I?  Mrs. 
Cyril  Trevanion  will  bo  a  taking  and  high-sounding  name  for 
the  bills." 

Lieutenant  Trevanion  looked  in  wonder  at  his  wife.  She 
stood  gazing  at  the  mists  rising  on  the  sea,  her  pretty  yellow 
curls  blowing  back,  the  rose  bloom  bright  on  her  cheeks — 
youthful  and  sweet  as  a  dream.  But  the  fair  brows  were  knit, 
the  dark  eyes  gleamed  angrily,  and  the  rosebud  mouth  was 
rigidly  compressed. 

*'  It  will  hardly  come  to  that.  Rose,"  he  said,  gravely. 
**  Cyril  Trevanion 's  wife  will  never  tread  again  the  theatrical 
boards,  and  she  knows  it.  1  have  influential  friends,  my  Rose. 
They  will  use  their  influence  in  my  favor,  and  obtain  me  an 
appointment  abroad — a  lucrative  one,  in  some  of  the  colo- 
nies. You  will  not  object  to  going  abroad  with  me,  my  dar- 
ling?" 

Rose  Trevanion  shrugged  her  graceful  shoulders. 

**  It  is  that,  or  starve,  I  suppose.  If  we  must  become  ex- 
iles, we  must;  but  I  confess  I  haidly  looked  forward  to  this 
sort  of  life.  Lieutenant  Trevanion,  when  I  married  you." 

The  young  man's  powerful  dark  eyes  jfixed  full  upon  her  in 
a  look  she  felt,  but  did  not  meet.  • 
^  "  Then  you  regret  your  marriage.  Rose?    You  loved  the 


WHO    WINS? 


ou  loved  tho 


name,  the  wealth,  and  tho  position  of  General  Trevanion*« 

heir — nol  tliu  iiimi  who  loved  you?'* 

"  If  you  wish  to  put  it  so — yes,"  tho  hride  of  three  weokt 
answered,  with  hitter  rcoklossness.  **  Of  one  thing  you  may 
be  certain,  sir:  if  I  hud  known  iJiis  was  to  bo  the  result,  I 
should  not  liavo  hwn  your  wife  to-day!  Let  us  talk  no  more 
about  it.     It  is  too  hiti^  now." 

She  turned  ])L'tulantly  away  from  liim,  and  looked  moodily 
seaward.  Very  fair  and  childish  nho  appeared — very  sweet 
and  delicate  lookeil  tho  rosy  mouth  that  uttered  such  cruel 
words.  Her  young  husband  stood  beside  her,  his  handsome 
face  more  darkly  stern  than  mortal  man  had  ever  seen  that 
face  before. 

**  It  grows  cold.  Do  you  not  wish  to  return  to  the  hotel?" 
he  asked,  brielly,  after  a  ])ausc. 

**  No.  AVhat  does  it  matter?  The  sooner  I  take  cold  and 
get  my  death,  'ind  make  an  end  of  it  all,  the  better." 

He  took  no  notice  of  the  taunt.  His  face  could  hardly  grow 
more  darkly  rigid  than  it  was;  but  he  turned  to  leave  her. 

**  In  that  case,  then,  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  excuse 
me  for  a  moment.     I  think  I  see  some  one  yonder  I  know." 

He  walked  hastily  away  in  the  direction  of  the  road. 
Friendly  faces  had  very  little  interest  for  him  just  at  that  mo- 
ment, but  anything  was  better  than  standing  with  his  wife's 
frowning  brow  before  him. 

Left  alone.  Rose  Trevanion  drew  her  mantle  abont  her, 
shivering  a  little  in  the  bleak  blast. 

**  Was  it  worth  while,"  she  thonght,  moodily,  "  to  risk  so 
much  to  gain  so  little?  How  much  better  off  ^hall  I  be  out 
yonder — in  some  dreary  colonial  town,  the  wife  of  a  besotted, 
moon-struck  simpleton,  than  I  was  before?  Better  to  have 
remained  Rose  Adair  yet  awhile  longer,  and  waited  for  the  luck 
that  mud  have  come." 

Lieutenant  Trevanion  joined  his  friends — two  military  men 
—one  a  young  and  eminently  handsome  man,  the  other  a  tall, 
nne-looking,   powerful    personage    of     nearly    forty,   whose 
bronzed  face  and  scars  told  of  battles  lost  and  won. 

**  Major  Powerscourt,"  the  young  hussar  said,  holding  out 
his  hand,  **  they  told  me  you  were  home  on  sick  leave,  but  I 
confess  I  hardly  looked  to  see  you  at  Brighton  in  November. 
When  did  you  arrive?" 

"  Cyril  Trevanion,  by  all  thaii's  surprising!"  exclaimed  the 
stalwart  major.  "  Why,  how  the  lad  has  grown  since  I  saw 
him  last,  and  as  like  the  general,  my  old  commanding  officer, 
as  two  peasi  My  friend,  Captain  Hawksley,  of  *  ours ' — ^Lieu* 


WHO    WINSP 


1 1 


P 


tenant  TreVanion.  When  did  I  arrive?  This  afternoon,  to 
please  Hawksley  here,  who  has  friends  in  the  place,  and  if  1 
nad  known  we  were  going  to  have  such  beastly  weather,  Td 
have  seen  my  friend  Hawksley  very  considerably  inconven- 
ienced before  I  came." 

"  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  the  weather,"  said  Cap- 
tain Hawksley;  "  rawish,  to  be  sure,  but  what  would  you 
have  in  the  middle  of  November?  If  a  man  leaves  his  live: 
out  there  in  India,  he  has  no  right— eh!  by  Jove!  it's  not  pos- 
sible, is  it?    I  say,  look  there,  Powerscourt!" 

Both  men  stared,  foi-  Captain  Hawksley  had  all  at  once 
fallen  into  a  state  of  alarming  excitement  in  the  middle  of  his 
aentence. 

"  Look  there,  Powerscourt!    Rose  Dawson,  for  a  ducat!'* 

"  Eh?"  cried  Powerscourt;  "  little  Rose!  the  girl  who  was 
with  you  last  year  deer-stalking  in  the  Highlands  I     Where?" 

**  Yonder— alone  on  the  West  Cliff.  She  doesn't  see  us — 
how  she  will  open  her  big  black  eyes  when  she  does  !  And 
see  how  the  little  sorceress  is  dressed — got  up  regardless  of 
expense.  What's  the  name  of  the  latest  moth  whose  wings 
she  has  singed,  I  wonder?" 

**  Lacelles  was  speaking  of  her  the  other  day  at  the  club," 
said  the  major;  *'  told  me  she  had  found  some  rich  fool  to 
marry  her.  Poor  devil!  Why  didn't  she  cut  his  throat  at 
once!    Let's  go  and  congratulate  her." 

"  Stop!"  said  Cyril  Trevanion.  He  was  deathly  pale,  and 
his  eyes  glittered  like  live  coals.  "  I — I  happen  to  know  that 
lady,  and  I— for  God's  sake,  Powerscourt!"  with  a  sudden 
fierce  cry,  "  what  is  it  you  mean?" 

The  two  men  looked  at  him,  then  at  each  other.  Major 
Powerscourt  had  been  smoking — he  took  his  cigar  from  be- 
tween his  lips,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  young  hussar's 
shoulder. 

"You  know  that  lady?"  he  said;  "don't  tell  me,  Cyril 
trevanion,  that  you  have  married  her!" 

"  I  have  married  her!"  Cyril  Trevanion  cried,  loudly  and 
passionately;  '^  she  is  my  wife — what  then?" 

"  Why  then,"  replied  Powerscourt,  dropping  his  hand  and 
replacing  his  cigar,  '*  I  have  nothing  more  to  say;  only  the 
Booner  you  take  your  pistol  and  blow  your  brains  out,  the  bet- 
ter. Heavens  and  earth,  Trevanion,  what  an  egregious  young 
ass  you  have  been!" 

"  Stop!"  the  young  man  exclaimed,  hoarsely,  "  even  snch 
old  friendship  as  yours,  Powerscourt,  gives  you  no  right — ** 
He  stopped  short,  literally  unable  to  ^o  on,  almost  sujfocated 


WHO    WlJfS  ? 


Vt 


I 


with  ihe  horrible  emotion  within  him.     Captain  Hawksley 
looked  at  him  compassionately. 

**  I  willleave  you  with  your  friend,  Pov/erscourt,"  he  said. 
"  I  will  go  back  to  town,  and  wait  for  you  on  the  Parade. 
Devilish  ugly  piece  of  business  this  altogether!"  in  a  low 
voice.     **  Fm  glad  to  be  well  out  of  it." 

He  bowed  to  Trevanion,  but  the  hussar  never  saw  it.     Hia 
face  was  ghastly,  as  Major  Powerscourt  took  his  arm  and  led. 
I  him  away. 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  TrevanioTi,"  the  elder  officer  said, 
gravely;  "  sorrier  almost  than  i*  I  saw  you  dead  before  me. 
Good  heavens!  what  -will  your  father  say — the  proudes*;  old 
martinet  in  the  three  kingdoms!  Was  there  no  friendly  voice 
to  warn  you — ^^no  friendly  hand  to  reach  out  and  save  you  from 
the  maddest  act  of  a  madman's  life?  Lacelles  told  me  some 
one  had  married  her,  but,  by  Jove!  I  could nH.  believe  it.  1 
couldn't  imagine  the  existence  of  so  infatuated  an  idiot!" 

Lieutenant  Trevanion  burst  into  a  harsh,  discordant  laugh. 

"  I  have  heard  of  Job's  comforters,  Powerscourt;  they 
flhonld  have  had  you  to  give  them  lessons.  Speak  the  truth, 
man!"  turning  upon  him  with  sudden  fury,  **  a-nd  speak  at 
once,  or  I'll  tear  it  from  your  throat!  Who  and  what  is  yon- 
der woman?" 

**  fcJhe  is  the  most  vicious  and  tmprincipled  little  adventuress 
the  wide  world  holds.     I  met  her  in  Paris.     Hawksley  and  I  , 
both  know  all  about  her.  Did  you  never  hear  of  her  first  mar- 
riage— of  the  poor  fellow  who  was  her  first  husband?" 

**  Her  husband!" 

"  A  bad  business,  old  boy — yes,  she  had  a  husband.  He 
was  a  private  in  Hawksley's  company — that's  how  Phil  got  to 
know  her  first.  It  appears  she  was  originally  a  Miss  Kosine 
Lemoine,  the  only  daughter  of  a  drunken  Frenchman,  an 
actor,  a  savant,  a  broken-down  roue,  and  she  ran  away  with 
'his  soldier — Joe  Dawson,  I  believe  he  called  himself — at  the 
precocious  age  of  fifteen.  He  was  a  brute,  I  must  say,  a  sot 
of  the  lowest  order,  and  when  she  left  him  and  his  youngster, 
three  years  after,  for  life  in  Paris — well,  I  for  one,  who  don't 
set  up  for  a  rigid  moralist,  did  not  blame  her.  She  returned 
to  him,  however,  four  months  later,  and  a  heavenly  life  he  led 
her,  if  the  truth  were  known,  in  a  state  of  chronic  and  beastly 
drunkenness.  Finally,  after  a  flogging,  he  deserted,  taking 
his  wretched  little  drab  of  a  wife  with  him,  and  the  next  we 
heard  of  him  he  was  dead." 

"Dead!" 

"  As  a  door  nail— murdered— struck  with  a  itone^  right  on 


#-*^l 


HB 


TTHO    WINS  ? 


p. 


1  ! 


1 

I 


the  temple,  by  f?ome  one  all  at  home  in  the  anatomy.  Don't 
ask  me  who  did  it— give  the  devil  his  due— -he  had  earned  it 
richly.  There  was  search  made  for  the  wife,  but  she  had  -vaa- 
ished— the  authorities  of  Leamington  never  found  her  from 
that  day  to  this.  They  buried  poor  Joe  Dawson,  and  sent  the 
'  child  to  thu  work-house.  A  year  later,  a  pretty  little  actress, 
a  Miss  Kose  Adair,  appears,  and  the  initiated  knew  her  at 
once,  but  kept  their  own  counsel.  Why  should  Hawksley, 
and  such  fellows  as  that,  turn  lihadamanthus,  and  haunt  to 
perdition  a  poor  little  wretch  who  never  injured  them? 
There's  her  story  for  you,  and  the  sooner  and  the  quieter  you 
get  rid  of  her  the  better.  You  may  depend  upon  Hawksloy 
and  me,  dear  boy — very  few  know  of  your  mad  marriagfe, 
very  f;.  v  ever  need  know.  I  will  m.uzzle  her  ett'ectualiy  hi 
five  minutes  with  the  threat  of  tlie  rope  and  the  hatigman. 
Come,  cheer  up,  Tievanion,"  with  a  hearty  slap  on  the 
shoulder.     '' A7/  de.yjermidnm.'^ 

But  Cyril  Trevauiun  was  staring  straight  before  him,  with 
an  awful,  blind,  vacant  stare.  It  was  fully  five  minutes  before 
he  spoke,  his  face  v/eariiig  the  dull,  livid  pallor  of  death. 

"  Let  us  go  to  her,''  he  said,  in  a  hoarse,  breathless  sort  of 
way.  "Oh,  my  God!  I  can  not  believe  what  you  tell  me  I 
There  is  some  mistake — some  horrible  mistake.  Let  us  go  to 
her,  Powerscourt,  and  teil  me  you  never  saw  her  before,  or  I 
shall  go  mad  where  I  stand!" 

"  My  poor  boy!"  Major  Powerscourt  said,  compassionately, 
**  Heaven  knows  I  would  spare  you  if  I  could.  But  it  is  best 
you  should  know  the  truth.     Let  us  go  to  her,  as  you  say." 

They  spoke  no  more;  in  dead  silence  they  drew  near  the 
lonely  little  figure,  still  gazing  moodily  at  the  gathering  mists 
upon  the  sea.  She  recognized  the  clank  of  the  spurs,  and 
spoke  without  turning  around. 

"  How  long  you  have  been.  Lieutenant  Trevani^n,"  she 
said  in  a  tone  of  peevish  impatience.  "  I  am  famished  and 
half  frozen.     Let  us  go  back  at — " 

She  never  finished  the  sentence.  She  had  turned  around, 
and  was  face  to  face  with  the  Indian  major.  He  stood  before 
her,  tall,  stalwart,  stern  as  doom,  and,  like  a  galvanized  corpse 
by  his  side,  stood  her  deluded  husband.  Her  face  turned 
of  a  dead  waxen  whiteness  from  brow  to  chin,  and  the  words 
she  was  uttering  froze  on  her  lips. 

**  Major  Powerscourt!" 

'*  Yes,  Rose  Dawson,'-'  Major  Powerscourt  answ?; red,  stern- 
ly, "it  is  L  You  hardly  expected  to  see  me  again  so  soon, 
when  we  parted  in  Paris,  did  you?    I  confess,  for  my  part,  I 


WHO    WHSrS? 


omy.     Don't 
had  earned  it 

she  had  vaa- 
nd  her  from 

and  sent  the 
little  actress, 
knew  her  at 
d  Hawksley, 
and  haunt  to 
jured  them? 
e  quieter  you 
on  Hawksley 
ad  marrfaij'b, 
•effectually  in 
he  hangman, 
slap    on    the 

)re  him,  wfth 
linutes  before 
•f  death. 
Lthless  sort  of 
you  tell  me  I 
Let  us  go  to 
jr  before,  or  I 

fl  passionately. 
But  it  is  best 
3  you  say. '' 
rew  near  the 
thering  mists 
le  spurs,  and 


*> 


van  J  on,"  she 
famished  and 

irned  around, 
!  stood  before 
anized  corpse 
face  turned 
nd  the  words 


3w:vred,  stern - 
igain  so  soon, 
)r  my  part,  I 


should  as  soon  have  looked  for  the  empress  of  ohe  French 
promenading  the  West  Clitl  at  Brighton.  I  thought  it  was  an 
understood  thing  you  did  not  come  to  England,  Mrs.  Daw- 
son?" 

She  made  no  reply;  she  stood  white  and  trembling  to  the 
very  lips.  The  major  loomed  up  before  her,  big,  stern,  piti- 
less as  death  itself. 

''  I  came  here  with  another  old  friend  of  yours,  Rose — Cap- 
tain Philip  Hawksley.  And  I  have  told  Lieutenant  Trevan- 
ion  all.  Do  you  hear.  Rose  Dawson?  for  I  deny  your  claim 
to  any  other  name — all.  That  nasty  little  episode  of  poor 
Joe  Dawson  among  the  rest." 

She  uttered  a  low,  wordless  cry  of  abject  terror,  and  hid  her 
white,  frightened  face  in  both  hands. 

''  You're  a  clever  little  woman.  Rose,  and  I  rather  admire 
your  pluck  in  putting  an  end  to  that  drunken  beast  Dawson; 
but,  by  Jove!  when  jou  delude  infatuated  young  raeo  into 
marrying  you,  you  come  it  a  little  too  strong.  Not  that  you 
have  the  shadow  of  a  claim  upon  my  young  friend  Trevanion; 
boys  of  nineteen  can  not  legally  contract  marriage  s;  but  lest 
you  should  grow  to  fancy  you  have,  I  may  as  well  put  an  end 
to  your  delusion  at  once.  I  give  you  just  one  week  to  ^uifc 
England,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dawson;  if,  at  the  end  of  that  time 
you  are  still  to  be  found,  I  will  have  you  in  the  Old  Bailey  in 
four-and-twenty  hours.  And  I  can  hang  you,  Rose,  and  I'll 
do  it,  by  all  that's  mighty!" 

She  dropped  her  hands  from  before  her  face,  and  looked 
him  straight  in  the  eyes,  her  own  brightly  defiant.  The  first 
shock  over,  and  the  little  golden-haired  sorceress  could  be  as 
insolently  defiant  as  the  bravest. 

"  You  won't  send  me  to  the  Old  Bailey,  and  you  won't 
hang  me.  I^m  not  afraid  of  you,  Major  Powerscourt,  or  of 
Captain  Hawksley,  either.  You  may  surmise  what  you 
please;  you  can  prove  nothing.  As  for  your  young  friend 
Trevanion,"  with  a  disdainful  sneer,  "  I  regret  my  folly  in 
marrying  him,  quite  as  much  as  he  can  do,  and  I  am  perfectly 
ready  and  willing  to  give  him  back  his  liberty  at  any  moment. 
I  married  the  heir  of  Monkswood  and  Trevanion,  not  a  penni- 
less, discarded  son,  doomed  to  subsist  on  a  lieutenant's  pitiful 
Eay.  I  will  resign  Lieutenant  Cyril  Trevanion  within  the 
our,  provided  Lieutenant  Cyril  Trevanion  does  the  handsome 
thing  by  me,  and  pensions  mo  off  as  he  ought  to  do." 

"What  a  mercenary  little  scoundrel  you  are.  Rose!"  the 
big  major  said,  half  indignant,  ^  ;ilf  amused.  "  Your  candor 
ifi  absolutely  refreshing,  and  your  ckcekiness  in  making  termi 


80 


WHO   WlSBf 


&! 


-I 


m 


r-' 


at  all,  the  best  joke  I  have  xieard  lately.  Cyril,  my  lad,  let  tis 
go  back  to  the  hotel;  we  can't  arrange  matters  here;  and  for 
Heaven's  sake,  dear  boy,  don't  wear  that  corpse-like  facel 
This  horrible  little  DeliJah  is  not  worth  one  honest  man's 
heart-pang.  You  perceive  your  candor  is  contagious,  Mrs. 
Dawson.  Take  my  arm,  if  you  please.  I  want  to  turn  the 
key  upon  you  presently." 

He  drew  her  hand  resolutely  within  his  arm,  and  Rose 
obeyed  not  unwillingly.  She  saw  one  of  those  women  ready 
to  be  your  abject  slave  or  your  merciless  tyrant  according  as 
they  find  you.  Major  Powerscourt  showed  himself  master  of 
the  situation,  and  the  fatal  little  siren  respected  him  accord- 
ingly- 

They  reached  the  hotel,  passing  Captain  Hawksley  on  the 

Parade.  The  captain  removed  his  cigar  and  touched  his  hat 
in  sarcastic  homage  to  the  late  Miss  Adair,  and  Rose's  black 
eyes  flashed  their  angry  lightning  upon  him  as  she  swept  by. 
Major  Powerscourt  led  her  to  her  own  door,  saw  her  enter, 
turned  the  key,  and  put  it  in  iiis  pocket. 

**  Now  then,  Trevanion,"  he  said,  kindly,  **  we'll  go  to 
your  apartment,  dear  old  boy,  and  settle  this  nasty  little  affair 
at  once.  Come,  cheer  up,  man!  It's  an  ngly  mistake,  but 
by  no  means  irreparable.  We'll  divorce  you  irrm  Rose  Daw- 
son in  the  next  twelve  hours,  without  the  aid  of  Sir  Cresswell 
Cress  well." 

"  Wait!"  Lieutenant  Trevanion  said  in  the  same  hoarse, 
breathless  way  he  had  spoken  before — '*  wait;  give  me  time. 
Leave  me  alone  for  a  little.  I  can't  talk,  1  can't  think.  I 
feel  as  though  I  were  going  maa." 

"He  looks  like  it,  by  Jove!"  exclaimed  the  majo",  in 
alarm.  ''Curse  that  httle  yellow-haired  Jezebel!  Remain 
here  one  instant,  Cyril.     I'll  fetch  you  a  glass  of  brandy."' 

Cyril  Trevanion  leaned  heavily  against  the  wall,  his  breath 
coming  in  suffocating  gasps,  his  face  now  li\idly  pale,  now 
flashing  fiery  red  ^^ith  the  surging  blood  in  his  brain.     He  [ 
stood  literally  stunned,  everything  swimming  before  him  in  a  ; 
hot,  red  mist. 

The  major  reappearrd  with  a  glass  of  brandy. 

"Drink  it,"  he  exclaimed,  impetuously,  **ftnd  get  out  of 
thifi  stupor,  if  you  can.  Be  a  man,  Cyril  Trev-^nlon.  Few 
know  of  your  folly;  few  need  ever  know.  In  twelve  months 
you  \^ill  be  ready  to  laugh  with  me  at  the  whole  thing,  and 
snap  jrour  fingers  in  her  face.  Drink  this  and  go  to  youi 
room,  if  you  will.    In  an  hour  I  will  ]o\n  you." 


WRO    fTDflf 


81 


The  young  man  drained  the  fiery  fiuid  and  handed  back  thtt 
glass. 

**  I  will  go  to  my  room,"  he  sa'l,  the  red  light  flashing 
back  into  his  white  face.  "  I  may  thank  you  later,  Powers- 
court,  for  what  you  have  done  to-day.     I  can  not  now.'* 

He  wrung  the"^  major's  hand  and  strode  away.  The  Indian  . 
officer  heard  him  eater  his  room,  close  and  lock  the  door  aftei  ' 
him. 

**  An  ugly  business,'*  Powerscourt  said,  with  a  somber 
shake  of  the  head — "  a  confoundedly  ugly  piece  of  business. 
Great  Heaven!  what  fools  young  men  are,  and  what  an  aban- 
doned little  fiend  that  fair-haired  enchantress  upstairs  must  bel 
1  hope  that  boy  will  do  nothing  rash  He  would  not  be  the 
first  Trevanion  who  has  blown  out  his  brains  for  less.  lUl 
have  a  talk  with  Hawksley.  Kose  must  march  before  the  sun 
rises." 

He  found  his  friend  taking  a  constitutional  on  the  piazza, 
still  solacing  himself  with  his  cigar,  and  watching  the  cold, 
white  November  moon  with  dreamy  eyes. 

**  Well,"  he  said,  taking  his  friendi's  arm,  "  and  how  have 
you  settled  it?  Poor  devil!  I  pity  him  with  all  my  souL-  I 
can  imagine  no  greater  torture,  here  or  hereafter,  than  being 
tied  for  life  to  that  fair-haired  termagant!" 

**  We  don't  tie  people  for  life  in  these  latter  days,"  the  ma- 
jor responded.  **  I'm  not  afraid  of  Madame  Rose;  we  will  get 
rid  of  ker  easily  enough.  It's  Trevanion  himself  Pm  afraid 
of.  The  lad  will  go  mad  or  kill  himself  under  the  disgrace. 
I  have  known  him  from  boj'hood,  you  see,  and  I  understand 
pretty  thoroughly  the  stuff  he  is  made  of.  I  could  throttle 
Joe  Dawson's  relict  this  minute  with  all  the  pleasure  in  lif^I" 

*/  Do,"  said  Hawksley,  serenely.  "  I  wish  you  would.  It 
might  save,  in  the  future,  some  honest  man.  But  a  few  hun- 
dred pounds  will  buy  her  off.  She  goes  cheap,  the  little  vil- 
lain.    Oh!  what  is  that?" 

It  was  a  woman's  shrill  scream.  The  nert  instant  Rose 
herself  came  flying  down  the  stair-way,  and  out  before  them 
on  the  moonlit  piazza. 

"The  deuce!"  said  the  major.  **  I  thought  I  locked  her 
in.  Does  the  chief  of  the  infernal  angels  help  her  to  whisk 
through  key-holes?    How  did  you  get  out,  mistress?" 

**  1  wanted  to  speak  to  Cyril  Trevanion,"  Rose  answered, 
breathlessly,  "  and  I  pushed  back  the  bolt  with  a  pair  of 
scissors.  For  pity's  sake,  go  to  him.  Major  Powerscourt! 
Something  dreadful  has  happened!  Not  that  way — not  that 
way  I    His  door  is  locked!" 


83 


WHO    WINSf 


The  Indian  major  waited  for  no  more;  he  dashed  away 
down  the  piazza  to  the  window  of  the  young  lieutenant's  room. 
The  window,  like  the  door,  was  closed  and  fastened,  and  the 
surtaiu  was  drawn;  but  through  a  spaoe  which  the  curtain  did 
not  cover  he  oould  see  into  the  brightly  lighted  room.     One 

fiance  was  enough.  With  a  cry  which  mortal  man  had  never 
efore  heard  from  the  stern  lips  of  the  bold  Indian  sabreur,  he 
dashed  the  casement  in  with  one  blow  of  his  mighty  fist,  and 
leaped  headlong  into  the  apartment. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SENT     ADRI  FT. 

Cyeil  Teevaniox  lay  face  downward  on  the  floor,  still  and 
lifeless  as  a  dead  man.  On  the  table  was  a  brace  of  pistols,  a 
half-written  letter;  a  dark  stream  of  blood  trickled  slowly 
from  the  livid  lips  and  formed  a  little  pool  on  the  carpet. 

The  major  raised  him  up,  with  a  deep  exclamation  of  hor- 
ror. The  helpless  head  fell  back  over  his  arm,  the  limbs  be- 
ing limp  and  lifeless,  and  the  dark,  dreadful  stream  still 
trickled  from  the  ghastly  lips. 

"  He  has  not  shot  himself,  after  all,"  said  Major  Powers- 
court,  glancing  at  the  loaded  pistols;  "  he  only  meant  to,  and 
nature  has  saved  him  the  trouble.  He  has  ruptured  an  artery 
while  writing  his  letter.  Here,  Hawksley,  send  some  ol  these 
papers  after  a  doctor,  and  see  that  Rose  Dawson  does  not  make 
her  escape." 

**  I  shall  not  try  to  escape,  Major  Powerscourt,"  Rose  said, 
with  a  little  disdainful  air.     "  Why  should  I?    If  Lieutenant 
Trevanion  ruptures  an  artery,  no  one  can  blame  mc  for  that  . 
foolish  act.     I  will  return  to  my  room,  and  await  Major  Pow- 
erscourt's  good  pleasure. " 

"  Go,  then,"  the  major  said,  sternly,  "  and  pack  u}»  your 
belongings.  Before  day-dawn  you  will  be  many  a  mile  i'rom 
this,  or — " 

The  little  beauty  shrugged  her  graceful  shoulders  and 
smiled  insolently  as  she  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

**  You  do  well  to  leave  your  sentence  unfinished.  You  will 
not  harm  a  hair  of  my  head,  and  you  know  it,  Major  Powers- 
court.  The  Indian  hero  would  hardly  gain  much  credit  in  a 
victory  over  poor  little  me." 

She  left  the  room  and  went  up'  to  her  own — a  luxuriant 
apartment,  brilliantly  lighted.  But  once  alone,  and  the  inso- 
lent smile  faded,  the  fair  face  tm-ned  hard  and  drawn,  the 


WHO    WINS  ? 


Sd 


blarA  eyes  took  a  fierce,  bitter  light.  She  stood  in  the  center 
oi  the  room,  the  gas-light  flooding  her  sylph-like  figure  ai'd 
flashi^  back  from  her  bright  silk  dress. 
,.  "  Is  it  worth  while/'  she  thought,  **  to  risk  bo  much  to  gain 
ll  80  little?  /s  the  game  worth  the  candle?  Must  my  whole  life 
\]  be  like  this — one  endless  round  of  plottings  and  counter-plot- 
tiiigs — of  defeat  in  the  very  hour  of  victory?  I  fled  from  a 
drunken  sot  of  a  father — a  father  who  had  dragged  me  about 
from  town  to  town,  from  country  to  country,  from  one 
wretched  lodging  to  another — to  a  still  mort  drunken  sot  of  a 
husband.  Good  Heaven!  the  horrible  life  I  led  with  that 
man  I  The  sternest  censor  that  ever  sat  in  judgment  on  frail 
woman  could  hardly  have  blamed  me  when  I  left  him.  And 
yet,  I  was  mad  enough  and  cowardly  enough  to  return  to  him 
— to  Joe  Dawson!"  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
shuddering.  '*  No,  I  can  not  ti  ik  of  that.  If  there  be  an 
avenging  Heaven,  as  they  say,  how  will  I  ever  dare  to  die? 
Oh,  my  God!  how  that  dead  man's  face  rises  before  me  in  the 
awful  hush  of  night — that  face,  as  I  saw  it  last,  so  terribly 
still  and  white!" 

She  wrung  her  hands  hard  together,  and  began  walking  up 
and  down  the  room  in  an  involuntary  hurry,  born  of  the  hurry 
and  tumult  of  her  mind.  But  her  face  was  flushed,  and  there 
was  a  streaming  brilliancy  in  her  great,  glittering  black  eyes. 

"It  is  not  sorrow,"  she  said,  setting  her  white  teeth;  " it 
is  not  remorse.  I  would  do  it  again,  if  it  were  to  be  done — 
for  he  war;  the  greatest  brute  earth  ever  saw,  to  me.  But  that 
terrible  face  haunts  me — will  haunt  me  until  my  dying  dayl 
And  the  child — I  wonder  if  it  is  alive — if  it  will  ever  meet  its 
miserable  mother?  They  talk  about  mother-love,  those 
others.  Perhaps  I  am  different  from  the  rest  of  the  world; 
but  I  always  hated  it  as  I  hated  its  father — little  crying,  fret- 
^  ful  torment  I  It  is  dead,  no  doubt — work-house  children  al- 
ways die. '' 

I  She  continued  her  walk  up  and  down,  her  slender  fingers 
twisting  themselves  convulsively,  her  exquisite  face  strangely 
old  and  haggard  and  hard  in  the  garish  gas-light. 

**  And  710'iv/'  she  thought,  bitterly,  "  this  last  failure — the 
worst  of  all!  I  took  pains  enough  and  trouble  enough.  Heaven 
knows,  to  lure  Cyril  Trevanion,  the  heir  of  fifteen  thousand  a 
year,  to  his  fate.  I  thought  to  reign  at  Monkswood  Priory — 
to  have  done  with  this  miserable  life  of  lying,  and  scheming, 
and  crime — to  turn  Lady  Bountiful,  to  become  the  mother  of 
the  Gracchi,  an  honored  matron  among  the  landed  ladies  of 
England,  and  lo!  in  the  very  hour  of  my  triumph,  I  find  my 


/ 


L- 


u- 


84 


WHO    WIKSf 


U-' 


huBband  discarded  by  his  patrician  father,  and  no  hopo  Vefore 
as  but  a  dreary  existence,  dragged  out  in  some  forlorn  'oreign 
colony.  And 'then,  Philip  Kawksley  and  this  big  Indian  ma- 
jor must  needs  turn  up  and  defeat  even  thut  pro'jecfc.  ''Truly 
there  is  a  destiny  which  shapes  our  ends,  in  spite  of  our  clev- , 
erest  schemes.  Well,  I  can  face  either  fortune — I  am  no 
worse  off  at  least  than  I  was  before,  and  I  vvon't  leave  Eng- 
land—I won'ti  not  for  Cyril  Trevanion  and  Philip  Hawksley, 
and  Major  Powerscourt  combined.  Vu  iStay,  and  I'll  have  re- 
venge on  General  Ewes  Trevanion  as  sure  as  my  name  is 
Rose.  I  will  never  cross  his  threshold,  on't  1?  I  will  never 
own  one  centime  of  his  money,  forsooth^'  She  clinched  her 
little  fist,  and  her  black  eyes  literally  U^zed.  '*  Very  well; 
we  shall  see!'' 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Cyril  Trevanion's  bride 
threw  herself  into  a  fauteuil  before  the  fire,  elevated  her 
pretty  little  lotlines  on  the  fender,  laid  her  head  against  the 
violet  velvet  back  of  her  chair,  and  said  in  her  softest,  sweet- 
est soprano  tones: 

'*  Come  in,  Major  Powerscourt." 

Major  Powerscourt  came  in.  Rose  never  stirred.  The 
hard-drawn  lines  vanished  from  the  rose-tinted  face,  and 
bright  little  smiles  dimpled  the  dainty  mouth.  She  made  an 
exquisite  picture,  reclining  there,  the  glistening  golden  hair  in 
shining  contrast  to  the  violet  velvet,  the  dark  eyes  luminous  as 
twin  diamonds. 

But  Major  Powerscourt  had  come  straight  from  the  bedside 
of  his  friend,  struck  down  as  by  lightning  through  this  amber- 
tressed  siren's  perfidy,  and  he  was  as  little  moved  by  all  that 
sensuous  splendor  or  beauty  and  colux^^g  as  weather-beaten 
St.  Simon  Stylites  on  his  hoary  pillar  might  have  been  after 
twenty  austere  years. 

"  ¥/iJl  you  sit  down.  Major  Powerscoutt?"  the  little  beauty 
said,  waving  one  richly  ringed  hand  airily  toward  a  chair. 
"  You  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  me,  I  dare  say,  and  it  will 
be  much  more  comfortable  to  say  it  sitting  than  standing. 
How  is  Lieutenant  Trevanion  now?  Poor  fellow!  I  am 
really  very  sorry  for  him.  Since  you  are  heartless  enough  to 
part  man  and  wife.  Major  Powerscourt,  it  would  be  so  much 
nicer  to  part  amicably.  He  has  returned  to  consciousness,  I 
hope?    What  does  the  doctor  say?" 

"  That  it  is  the  turn  of  a  straw  whether  he  ever  survives. 
That  if  he  does  survive,  it  is  ten  chances  to  one  but  he  will  be 
an  idiot  for  life!" 

The  little  lady  lifted  her  plump  white  ehouldent. 


WHO   WIKSP   ,  ii 

"  How  yery  unpleasant!  Boys  of  nineteen  take  things  ter- 
ribly in  earnest.  And  you  won't  sit  down,  Major  Powers 
court?  Tlien,  as  it  makes  one  fidgety  to  see  you  standing 
there  so  frightfully  grim  and  stern,  will  you  be  good  enougn 
to  say  what  you  have  come  to  say,  and  go  outh  Only,  please 
don't  scold — it  never  does  any  good,  and  I  .dislike  to  be 
scolded. '"  '^ 

"  Do  you,  indeed?*'  said  the  Indian  officer,  grimly. 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  insolent  audacity  of  the  frail  little 
midget  before  him  amused  him.  She  looked  so  pretty,  so  tiny, 
80  childish,  so  helpless,  that,  wicked  little  sinner  as  he  knew 
her  to  be,  the  harsh  words  he  oiicfht  to  utter  died  upon  his 
lips.  The  contest  between  the  strong,  stalwart  man  and  the 
slender  sylphide  seemed  so  terribly  unequal. 

"  Do  you,  indeed,  Mrs.  Dawson?"  he  said,  eyin^  her  stoic- 
ally. *'  I  wonder  how  a  cell  in  the  Old  Bailey,  a  diet  of  bread 
and  water,  a  prison  barber  to  shave  off  all  those  lovely  ring- 
lets, and  R.  prison  garb  to  exchange  for  that  glistening  silken 
robe,  would  suit  you?  I  have  the  strongest  mind  to  try  it  I 
ever  had  to  try  anything." 

"Don't  be  disagreeable,"  Rose  said,  petulantly;  "you 
know  you  haven't.  You  would  be  ashamed  of  yourself  all 
ycur  hfe  long  if  you  did  anything  half  so  unmanly.  I'm  only 
a  poor  little  woman.  Major  Pgwerscourt,  and  if  I  try  to  better 
myself,  who  can  blame  me?" 

**  Ah!  you  are  going  to  do  the  pathetic!  Well,  don't  waste 
I  your  eloquence,  Rose.  I'll  let  you  off  scot-free  this  time,  to 
better  yourself  once  more.  I  wonder  who  you'll  victimize 
[next,  Mrs.  Dawson?" 

"  Don't  call  me  Mrs.  Dawson,"  Rose  burst  out,  angrily; 
I"  I  hate  the  name!  And  I  am  Cyril  Trevanion's  wife,  and 
have  a  right  to  his  name.  I  am  Mrs.  Trevanion  as  fast  aa 
[Church  and  State  can  make  me." 

**  Church  and  State,  in  this  case,  standing   for  Oretna 

JSreen,"  said  the  major.     "  It  was  the  Immortal  Blacksmith 

who  tied  the  nuptial  knot,  wasn't  it?    But  we  waste  time 

talking.    Here  are  my  terms:  I  will  giv6  you  one  hundred 

[pounds,  and  yc  will  Isave  England  as  swiftly  as  steam  can 

[carry  you,  ana  netter  yourself  in  France  or  anywhere  else,  if 

fou  choose.    You  may  beguile  the  Emperor  of  the  French  or 

the  Sultan  of  Turkey  into  marrying  you,  for  all  I  will  ever 

interfere.     I  resign  them  cheerfully  to  the  worst  of  all  earthly 

'iteflp—into  being  duped  by  you.    But  you  must  promise  never 

return    to  England— never  to  trouble  Cyril  TreYanicn 


\- 


"; 


I.' 


';  I 


H 


WHO    WIKBf 


'/A*. 

7(1 


"  I  will  promise  nothing  of  the  sort  I"    She  arow  m  8hi| 

ipoke,  aDd  stood  brightly  defiant  before  him,  her  little  figun 
erect,  her  fair  head  thrown  back.  "  I  won't  leave  England 
I  will  depart  from  this  place  as  soon  as  you  please— I  will 


promise  nothing.  _ 

remain.     It  is  of  no  used  for  you  to  threaten  and  bluster,  | 
Major  Powerscourt— I  tell  you,  I  wo7i't !'' 

She  stamped  her  little  foot,  and  folded  her  pretty  arms,  and  I 
looked  up  at  him  ablaze  with  rebellion-  and  Major  Poweri. 
court  looked  down  at  th(  defiant  fairy  in  a  whimsical  mixture | 
of  anger  and  amusement. 

**  Give  me  the  hundred  pounds,"  she  said,  holding  forth  onel 
plump,  bejeweled  hand.  **  It's  a  pitiful  sum  enough,  but  it 
will  suffice  for  the  present.  And  the  next  time  you  meet  mo, 
Major  ^owerscourt — or  your  friend  Captain  Hawksley,  either 
— be  good  enough  to  mind  your  own  business  and  let  me 
alone." 

Major  Powerscourt  took  out  his  pocket-bpok,  still  staring  in| 
comical  dismay  at  the  flushed  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes. 

*'  Upon  my  soul,  Rose,"  he  said,  "  you  hav3  an  unequaledl 
knack  of  turning  the  tables.  I  yield.  But,  mind,  it's  a  weak 
and  cowardly  act  of  me;  and  if  you  ever  trouble  poor  Cyril 
Trevanion  more,  I'll  keep  my  promise  and  have  you  up  for 
the  murder  of  Joe  Dawson.  Ah!  tluU  makes  you  wince,  does 
it?  Remember  the  sword  of  Dam — what's  his  name?— ^U8-| 
pended  by  a  single  hair.  Let  Cyril  Trevanion  and  my  per- 
Donal  friends  alone,  and  the  hair  will  uphold  the  sword;  med- 
dle with  them — " 

"  That  will  do,"  Rose  said,  disdainfully.  **  Don't  trouble! 
yourself  to  finish  the  sentence.  I  won't  interfere  with  Cyril 
I'revanion,  unless  in  the  future  Cyril  Trevanion  interferes  with 
me.  In  that  case,  self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of  nature, 
I'll  not  be  crushed  with  impunity  by  anybody.  Suppose  you 
give  me  your  purse  off-hand.  Major  Powerscourt,  as  they  do 
on  the  stage.  General  Trevanion  would  give  more  than  one| 
hundred  pounds,  I  dare  say,  to  see  his  son  free." 

The  Indian  officer  grimly  laid  two  crisp  fifties  in  the  pretty  I 
pink  palm. 

**  I  give  3^ou  just  one  hour,"  he  said,  pulling  out  his  watch,| 
**  to  get  to  the  station.  There  is  a  train  for  London  at  ten- 
fifty.  You  will  go  by  that.  And  remember,  for  the  latt 
time,  if  you  cross  my  path  again,  I'll  not  spare  you.  Yol 
beauty  and  your  blandisWents  have  about  as  much  efteot  apcal 


WHO   WUfS  F 


87 


me  M  the  beauty  of  Kathleen  had  upon  the  etony  St.  Eeym 
when  he  hurled  hor  over  the  rock.  And,  by  all  the  gods,  1*11 
ixurl  you  to  perdition  without  mercyl  Have  you  l^lything 
more  to  suy  to  me  before  we  part?" 

**  Only  this,"  said  the  bride  of  Cyril  Trevanion,  her  pretty 
face  sparkling  with  malicious  audacity,  ^'  that  it  is  a  thousand 
piiies  I  did  not  marry  i/ou  instead  of  that  milksop  down- 
stairs. To  dupe  such  a  man  as  you  would  be  something  to  be 
proud  of  to  tho  last  day  of  one's  life.  Good-bye,  Major 
Powerscourt.  If  we  ever  mee*^  again,  don't  be  too  hard  on 
poor  little  Boso." 

She  actually  held  out  her  hand,  and  Major  Powerscourt,  in 
ipite  of  himself,  took  it.  The  next  instant  he  was  gone,  in- 
dignant at  his  own  weakness  and  folly;  and  Rose  Trevanion, 
alone  in  her  room,  laughed  a  silvery  peal  of  triumph. 

**  I  can  wind  the  best  of  them  and  the  sternest  of  them 
around  my  little  finger,"  she  said,  exultingly.  "  General 
Trevanion  is  a  widower.  Who  knows,  then?  I  may  reign 
queen  of  Monkswood  yet,  in  spite  of  the  discarded  son  and  lit- 
tle Sybil  Lemox." 

Within  the  hour  he  had  given  her,  "Rose  Trevanion  left  the 
hotel.  She  carried  a  large  morocco  bag  in  her  hand,  contain- 
ing her  jewels  and  that  mysterious  copper  box,  which  she 
would  no6  intrust  to  the  keeping  of  her  trunk.  By  the  ten- 
fifty  train,  flying  through  the  brilliant  November  moonlight, 
weaving  silently  her  dark  plots,  the  little  adventuress  spea  on 
her  way  to  London. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

**AND  NOW  I'm  in  THE  WORLD  ALONE." 

Lying  back  in  the  softest  of  lounging-chairs,  smoking  an 
unexceptionable  hubble-bubble — a  supper  worthy  of  the  Troisj 
Freres  before  him — Cyril  Trevanion  sat  gazing  out  at  the 
falling  January  snow  and  the  lights  ol  the  town  twinkling 
feebly  through  the  white  drift. 

For  it  was  January  now,  and  the  foam  of  the  sea,  seen  from 
I  his  window,  was  not  whiter  than  the  streets  of  Brighton.  It 
had  been  a  sharp  struggle  between  life  and  death,  during  those 
I  weary  weeks  of  brain  fever,  but  his  strong,  young  manhood, 
Ihis  iron  constitution,  had  vanquished  death.  He  was  conva* 
llescent  now — the  pale  shadow  of  his  darkly  hand  some,  self,  but 
iwlth  life  beating  strongly  in  the  strong  heart  that  only  knew 
|it8  own  bitterness.    The  haggard  face  looked  very  still  and 

'  1-— almost  marble-lilce  in  its  white  calm.     He  was  t&ciag 


''K^J'^FvWJ!^ 


Il 


I 


■  i 


8i  WSO    WZ9B? 

the  inevitalle,  as  all  brave  men  must,  with  stoical  enduranoi 

and  quiet  ,  ,  v,      . 

The  news  had  fled  ajDace— borne  on  the  very  winds  ox 
hearen.  The  latest  sensation  el  the  clubs  and  the  nieas-tablcs, 
among  gossiping  dowagers  a  id  chatteriitg  young  ladiei,  waa 
the  mad  marriage  of  General  Trcvanion's  only  son.  "Poor 
devil  I"  the  men  said,  with  a  lau'^h  and  a  shrug,  **  what  an  in 
conceivable  idiot  the  fellow  must  be.  He  has  sent  her  adrii't 
they  say— no  doubt  the  little  ballerina  has  made  a  capita, 
thing  oi  it."  It  had  flown  down  even  to  Moukswood  Pnory, 
to  goad  the  fiery-hearted  old  seigneur  to  utter  madness—lo 
make  him  curse,  in  hia  passionate  pride,  the  hour  of  that  once 
idolized  son's  birth. 

And  Cyril  Trevanion  knew  all  this— they  did  their  best, 
Major  Powerscourt  and  Captain  Hawksley,  in  their  friendly 
good  nature,  but  they  could  not  keep  it  from  him.  Did  it  not 
stare  at  him  from  the  very  columns  of  BeWs  Lifej  with  tell- 
tale initials  and  droll  comments?  If  his  pale  face  turned  a 
shade  more  ghastly,  if  his  teeth  locked  hard  together — he 
made  no  other  sign.  His  six-shooter  lay  ready  to  his  hand, 
but  he  never  looked  that  way.  In  the  -'rst  hour  of  his  mad- 
ness, those  pistols,  lying  loaded  on  his  table,  were  to  have 
blown  out  his  infatuated  brains;  but  ho  had  been  saved,  as  by 
fire,  and  his  thoughts  never  turned  to  that  escape  now.  And 
not  once,  since  he  had  been  stricken  down  by  that  Unseen 
Hand,  had  the  fatal  name  of  the  golden-haired  traitress  escaped 
his  lips. 

He  sat  alone  this  evening.  Major  Powerscourt  had  left  him 
to  enjoy  his  Manilla  in  the  keen  January  air.  He  sat  alone, 
smoking  steadily — the  book  he  had  been  reading  fallen  on  his 
knee — his  dark,  dreamy  eyes  fixed  on  the  darkening  sky  and 
sea.  It  was  quite  dark  when  the  Indian  officer  strolled  in, 
filling  the  warm  room  with  a  rush  of  wintery  air. 

"Musing  in  the  gloaming,"  the  major  sojd,  cheerily, 
**  romantic,  dear  boy,  but  uncommonly  conducive  to  dismals 
and  blue  devils.  We'll  light  the  gas  and  send  you  to  bed;  in- 
valids always  ^o  to  roost  with  the  chickens." 

"Never' mind  the  gas,  Powerscourt,"  the  younger  man 
said,  impatiently;  "  there  is  light  enough  for  what  I  want  to 
say.    I  have  played  invalid  long  enough — I'll  be  off  to-mor 
row." 


i> 


**AhI"  said  the  major,  taking  a  seat  near,  and  lighting 
another  weed.  "You're  off,  ate  you?  Well,  I  have  no  ob- 
jection, provided  your  destination  is  Moukswood." 

**  Moakswoodl'^  Cyril  Trevanion  repeated,  bitterly.     "  My 


ffMO  WWi?  19 

last  Tiiit  to  Monkswood  was  so  pleasant,  that  it  is  likely  I  will 
hasten  to  return.  The  r6Io  of  Prodigal  Son  is  not  the  least  in 
my  line,  and  General  Trevanion  is  hardly  the  sort  of  father  to 
kill  the  fatted  calf  and  robe  the  pciiitont  in  gold  and  purple. 
No,  Powerscoiirt,  I  have  looked  my  last  on  Monkswood.  I  am 
the  first  of  the  race  who  ever  disgraced  tlip  name  of  Trevanion 
—a  name  that  never  was  approached  by  shame  until  I  bore  it. 
I  know  how  my  father  received  me  last — on©  hardly  cares  to 
brave  that  sort  of  thing  twice." 

The  major  listened  very  quietly. 

**  What,  then,  do  you  mean  to  do?  You  haye  some  plan 
formed,  I  suppose?' ' 

*'  Yes,  I  shall  exchange- — go  out  to  India.  One  always  finds 
hot  work  out  yonder,  and  tho  sooner  a  Sepoy  bullet  sends  one 
more  fool  out  of  the  world,  tho  better.  1  \,as  cowaid  enough, 
that  first  night,  to  meditate  Kelf-murdor.  I  am  thankful,  at 
least,  that  tfiat  last  dastardly  deed  was  spared  me.  It  would 
be  a  fitting  ending,  no  doubt,  for  such  a  besotted  life  as  mine 
has  been. '° 

'*  Don't  give  it  such  terrible  earnestness,  my  friend,*'  Major 
Powerscourt  said,  puffing  calmly  at  his  cigar;  *'  nothing  is 
eyer  worth  a  scene.  You  will  go  out,  of  course — in  any  case 
you  could  hardly  do  better;  but  let  us  hope  for  a  more  agree- 
able ending  than  a  Sepoy  bullet.  And  one's  father  is  one's 
father;  if  I  were  you  1  would  run  down  to  Monkswood  and 
say  adieu.  Even*  General  Ewes  Trevanion  may  have  been 
guilty  of  follies  in  his  life-time — if  not,  then  he  has  been  most 
confoundedly  slandered.  Let  him  think  of  the  past,  and  not 
turn  so  tremendously  Spartan  and  stiff-necked.  We  all  haye 
our  little  weaknesses  where  pretty  women  are  concerned — the 
best  of  us." 

Cyril  laughed  sardonically. 

**  But  you  don't  marry  them,  my  boy.  I  might  have  been 
enamorea  of  all  the  griseltes  and  ballet-girls  ni  London;  so 
that  r  did  not  stoop  to  the  madness  of  wedlock,  my  rigidly 
moral  father  might  have  disapproved,  but  he  assuredly  would 
not  have  discarded  me.  However,  as  you  say,  a  father  once,  a 
father  always;  and  the  dear  old  governor  has  always  acted  like 
a  trump  tc  me.  I'll  go  down,  if  you  insist  very  strongly, 
Powerscourt — I  owe  you  more  than  that." 

He  stretched  forth  his  hand  in  the  darkness,  and  his  friend 
grasped  it  in  a  strong  grip. 

**  Be  a  man,  and  live  down  the  present.  We  will  laugh 
oyer  it  together  out  there  in  India,  when  you  win  your  colonelcy. 
And  she — have  yon  no  curiosity  about  her,  Trevanion?" 


i 


II 


i  <m 


40 


WHO  wiwsF 


"  You  dealt  with  her,"  Cyril  responded,  very  quietly;  "1 
iwk  to  know  no  more.     I  don't  think  the  day  will  ever  C( 


I  forget;  you  don't  know 
-a  distant  cousin  or  some- 


come 
when  1  can  hear  her  name  quite  unmoved." 

"  It  was  a3  quiet  as  possible,"  the  major  eaid;  "  we  had  no 
flccne.  She  went  at  once,  and  ehe  consented,  readily  enough, 
to  drop  your  name  and  trouble  youno  more.  She  will  hardly 
follow  you  to  the  interior  of  India,  Sikh-shooting  an(^  pig. 
sticking.  And  now,  my  lad,  I  don't  want  to  hurry  your  de- 
parture, you  know,  but  I  really  think  the  sooner  you  quit 
Brighton  and  show  yourself  at  Monkswood,  the  better.  And 
the  sooner  you  are  off  for  India,  the  better  still.  The  voyage 
— the  new  life—the  chance  to  distinguish  yourself,  will  do  you 
a  world  of  good.  Til  follow  you  myself  in  two  or  three 
months.     I  find  this  sort  of  thing  very  slow." 

**  I'll  leave  Brighton  to-morrow.  The  chances  are  fifty  to 
one  that  my  father  will  not  see  me — that  I  will  find  the  door 
closed  in  my  face;  but  still — and  then  I  shotdd  like  to  say 
good-bye  to  little  Sybil." 

"  Who  may  '  little  Sybil '  be?" 

"  Lady  Lemox's  daughter.  Ah! 
Lady  Lemox.  She  was  a  Tievanion- 
thing — and  she  ran  away  with  Lord  Lemox  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen. She  had  nothing  and  he  had  less — a  title  and  a  ruinous 
Highland  castle,  and  the  pride  of  the  Miltonic  Lucifer.  He 
was  good  enough  to  give  up  the  ghost  a  year  or  two  ago,  leav- 
ing, as  the  newspapers  say,  a  '  disconsolate  widow  and  two 
children  to  mourn  their  irreparable  loss.'  Since  then.  Lady 
Lemox,  little  Sybil,  and  Charley  have  spent  their  time  pretty 
evenly  among  their  friends.  They  were  at  Monkswood  on  the 
occasion  of  my  last  visit,  and  my  father  was  good  enough  to 
inform  me  that  Sybil  was  to  be  his  heiress.  Every  rood  he 
possesses,  every  sou  he  commands,  are  to  go  to  her.  Monks- 
wood,  of  course,  is  entailed  and  out  of  his  power,  but  that  is 
to  be  left  to  desolation  and  decay.  The  Trevanions  show 
themselves  to  be  good  haters,  at  least." 

"  Then,"  the  major  said,  with  a  half  laugh,  **  your  plan  i* 
to  marry  the  heiress.     How  old  may  she  be?'' 

*'  Four  or  five." 

"  That  gives  you  thirteen  years  to  forget  the  falsest  of  the 
false.  The  Sybil  is  pretty,  of  course?  The  women  of  your 
race  are  and  always  have  been,  I  believe.  Come  home  cov- 
ered with  scars  and  giory  in  thirteen  years,  and  marry  the 
pretty  Sybil  out  of  hand.  Girls  of  eighteen  are  all  hero-wor- 
ihipers;  she  won't  be  able  to  say  no.      Courage,  my  friendl  j 


WHO  wnro? 


41 


ou  don't  know 


I,  **  your  plan  i* 


You  will  marry  a  high-bom  bride,  and  a  splendid  dowry  y»t, 
and  the  worthless  little  Rose  may  so  an  diable  1" 

**I  will  never  marry,"  Cyril  Trevanion  replied,  quietly. 
"  I  mean  it,  Powerscourt.  I  could  never  trust  earthly  woman 
again;  I  could  never  place  my  name  and  my  honor  in  the 
keeping  of  things  so  light  and  frail.  They  are  what  you  men 
make  them — toys  of  an  hour.  We'll  drop  the  subject,  if  you 
like,  Powerscourt,  and  for  good.  I'll  run  down  to-morrow, 
take  a  last  look  at  the  dear  old  place,  at  my  bright  little  Sybil 
— who  will  make  a  much  better  use  of  the  Trevanion  ducatt 
than  ever  I  would  do — say  farewell  to  the  general,  and  depart. 
And  now,  as  I  am  about  tired  smoking,  and  as  you  must  be 
wearied  nearly  to  death  playing  sick-nurse,  I'll  be  mercifiU 
and  go  to  bed." 

"  And  don't  quite  go  to  the  dogs  with  despair,"  Powers- 
court  suggested,  strolling  out.  "  You  know  what  the  most 
disconsolate  of  all  poets  says:  *  The  heart  may  break,  yet 
brokenly  live  on.'  It's  exceedingly  true,  dear  boy.  The 
*  heart  may  break,'  yet  we  smoke  our  Manillas  and  enjoy  our 
valse  a  deux  temps,  the  stories  at  mess,  our  bitter  beer  and 
Cavendish  as  much  as  ever.  *  The  heart  may  break,'  but  we 
eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  and  laugh  at  the  peep-shows,  the 
dancing  dervishes,  the  Almes,  and  the  merry-go-rounds  of 
Vanity  Fair,  with  as  keen  a  relish  as  before.  There's  nothing 
in  life  worth  all  this  tremendous  earnestness;  and  one  may 
hope  so  much  for  young  subalterns  of  nineteen.  Pardon  the 
prosiness  for  the  sake  of  the  moral,  and  the  consideration  that 
it  will  be  my  last  lecture.  Be  a  good  boy;  go  down  to  Monks- 
wood  and  do  the  penitential  to  the  governor.  In  the  immortal 
words  of  the  copy-book,  '  Be  virtuous  and  you  will  be  hap- 
py.' " 

And  then  this  military  moralist  strolled  languidly  out, 
rather  surprised  at  his  own  eloouence,  and  went  off  to  a  game 
of  ecarU  that  would  last  to  tlio  very  smallest  of  the  email 
hours. 

Early  next  moraing  Lieutenant  Trevanion  bid  his  friends 
adieu,  and  started  for  Monkswood.  Very  bitterly  came  back 
to  him  the  memory  of  that  other  journey  two  short  months 
before,  when  Rose  had  been  his  ideal  of  all  that  is  true  and 
pure  and  womanly.     And  noio  ! 

*'  I  would  rather  face  the  maddest  bull  that  ever  gored  the 
life  out  of  gladiator,"  he  thought,  "than  my  father.  But  I 
have  promised  Powerscourt,  and  I  will  keep  my  word." 

The  January  sky  was  all  one  living  glow  with  the  glory  of 
ranset  when  the  young  man  passed  through  the  park  g9iM^ 


:i ! 


WHO  Wisrs? 


and  up  the  stately  avenue  of  oak  and  elm  to  the  grand  portled 

entrance  of-  the  house.  The  massive  turrets  of  the  Friory 
loomed  above  the  tall  tree-tops,  its  western  windows  glittering 
redly  in  the  sunset  light.  But  everywhere  strange  stillness 
reigned—no  joyous  barking  of  dogs,  no  curling  wreaths^  of 
smoke,  no  passing  of  stable-boys  or  gardeners  to  betoken  life. 
,  As  solemnly  still  as  the  castle  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  Monks- 
wood  Priory  lay. 

*'  Already,""  Cyril  thought,  his  heart  sinking—"  already  the 
desolation  has  begun.     My  father  keeps  his  promise  betimesl" 

He  paused  in  front  of  the  massive  facade  and  looked  up. 
Ikathly  stilliuss  everywhere,  curtains  drawn,  blinds  closed,  no 
face  at  any  of  the  windows,  no  twinkling  lights  behind  those 
mullioned"^  casements.  Dead  silence— solitude  as  d^ep  as 
though  he  stood  ia  the  heart  of  some  primeval  forest.  As  be 
lingered,  spell-bound,  a  loud  clock,  over  the  distant  stairs, 
striking  six,  aroused  him. 

"There  must  bo  some  one  left,"  he  thought;  "Mrs. 
Telfer,  at  least. "       . 

He  made  his  way  round  to  a  smaller  door  deep  in  a  stone 
archwav,  and  rang  a  bell.  No  one  came.  He  rang  again 
more  loudly,  and  after  a  time — a  wearily  long  time — a  key 
turned  in  the  lock,  and  an  old  man's  face  looked  out. 

*'  What's  yer  wull?"  this  old  man  asked,  in  broad  Gaelic, 
staring  hard  at  the  tall,  dark  figure  looming  up  in  the  twilight. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Mclver?"  Cyril  said.  "Where  is 
the  housekeeper?    Wliere  is  Mrs.  Telfer?''' 

"  The  Lord  be  gucle  till  us!"  the  old  man  gasped;  **  deiPs 
in  it  if  it's  no  Maister  Cyril  himsel'!  The  housekeeper's  gane, 
the  auld  gineral's  gane,  me  leddy's  gane,  and  the  twa  wains 
wi'  her.  They're  all  gane,  Maister  Cyril,  but  auld  Janet  and 
me,  and  troth  we'll  gae  oursel's  afore  lang;  for,  oh!  it's  a 
>  grRwsome  place  and  a  lonesome.  And  ye've  cam  back,  Mais- 
ter Cyril,  and  we  niver  thocht  to  clap  ee  on  ye  mair." 

The  young  man  leaned  heavily  against  the  granite  archway, 
very  pale.    He  was  v  eak  still,  and  he  had  not  expected  this. 

"  Do  you  know  wLere  my  father  has  gone?"  he  asked. 

**  Deii  tak'  me  if  I  do!  He  was  of  a  high  stomach  and  a 
proud  temper  always,  and  it's  no  likely  he'd  tak'  auld  Mclver 
mto  his  confidence  and  tell  him  his  plans  like  in  a  twa-handed 
crack.  £  dinna  ken,  Maister  Cyril,  where  ony  ane  o'  them's 
^ane;  but  Mistress  Telfer  she's  awa'  to  Trevanion  Park,  and 
a'  the  sairvents  wi'  her,  clapt  on  board  wages,  i:  el  sech'n  a 
time  as  the  gineral  may  see  feet  to  come  back.  And  Janet 
iDd  m&t  we're  left  here  teel  further  orders;  and  deil's  in  i^ 


WHO   WMTfi? 


48 


bnt  I  think  the  auld  prior  o'  ghaisfcly  memory  Btalki  frae 
room  to  room,  tellinff  his  beads  aud — '* 

The  garrulous  old  keeper  of  Monkswood  was  cut  short  by 
finding  himself  suddenly  alone.  The  young  heir  had  swung 
himself  abruptly  round  and  disappeared. 

*'  Hech,  sirs!*'  muttered  Mclver,  staring  after  him  into  the 
t;wilight;  "  deil  to  my  suul,  if  he's  no  eane!  He's  no  unlike 
a  speerit  himsel',  stalkin'  up  pale  and  dark,  and  vanishing  in 
the  clapping  o'  an  ee  like  a  ghaist  in  the  gloanalng.  Weel,  i 
maun  gang  back  to  Janet  and  the  parritch.'* 

He  relocked  the  door,  wagging  his  hoary  head,  and  Cyril 
Trevanion  strode  down  in  the  wintcry  starlight,  solitary  and 
alone  .as  he  had  come.  The  moon  had  risen  above  the  tree- 
tops — a  round,  white,  silver  shield,  with  numberless  stars 
cleaving  clear  and  keen  around  her,  and  the  mystic  glades  of 
fern  and  underwood  black  with  bitter  frost,  the  dark  expanse 
of  beech  and  elm  and  oak  looked  wondrously  beautiful  in  the 
solemn  night.  The  discarded  son  turned  to  take  one  parting 
look,  his  heart  very  bitter. 

**  Will  I  ever  see  it  again?"  he  said,  aloud,  between  his  set 
teeth.  **  A  i  >ble  heritage  lost  through  the  mad  folly  of  a 
mad  boyl  My  pretty  Sj'bil  may  take  this  with  the  rest;  1  will 
never  return  to  claim  it.  Seven  feet  of  Indian  soil,  and  an  In- 
dian bullet  to  do  its  merciful  work,  is  all  I  ask  of  Fate  now!" 

"  And  even  tliat  yon  will  not  get,  dishonored  son  of  many 
Trevanions!"  said  a  shrill  voice  at  his  elbow.  "  A  soldier's 
honored  grave  is  too  fair  a  fate  for  your  father's  son.  The 
curse  of  the  murdered  prior,  shot  down  like  a  dog:  in  yonder 
green  glade,  will  fall  on  the  last  of  the  race  I  And  you  aud 
Sybil  Lemox  are  the  last!" 

He  had  turned  round,  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
the  weird  witch  who  had  surprised  him  on  his  last  visit — old 
Hester. 

**  You  again,  Hecate?"  he  said.  "You  can  trespass  with 
impunity  now,  I  suppose.  But  hadn't  you  better  keep  civil, 
and  hadn't  you  best  not  play  eavesdropper?  Suppose  you  go 
home,  my  venerable  beldame^  if  you  possess  such  a  thing. 
These  night-dews  are  uncommonly  provocative  of  rheumatics. 

He  walked  away  rapidly;  but  old  Hester  stood  where  he  had 
left  her,  shaking  her  bony  fist  after  him  impotently. 

**  The  curse  will  come!  the  doom  will  fall!  I  see  it  in  the 
future — your  fate  and  the  little  Lady  Sybil's.  I  have  read 
the  stars,  and  I  know  what  they  say,  and  the  time  is  coming 
taat 


44  WHO    WDTB? 

••  The  bat  shall  flit,  tho  owl  shall  hoot; 
Grim  Kuin  stalks  with  haste; 
The  doom  shall  full  when  Monkswood  Hall 
is  changed  to  Monkswood  Waste!" 

And  with  the  ominous  crconing  of  this  hoary  old  raven, 
Cyril  Trevauion  looked  his  last  on  Monkswood  Priory. 

Two  weeks  later,  amolig  the  crowd  assembled  on  the  pier, 
watching  the  steamer  bearing  the  troops  to  the  transport  fur-  ^ 
ther  down  the  Thames,  there  stood  a  little  woman,  closely 
veiled,  whose  eyes  were  steadfastly  fixed  on  one  figure,  stand- 
ing a  trifle  apart  on  the  deck— a  conspicuous  figure,  the  lofty 
head  towering  erect,  even  among  those  stalwart  old  veterans 
— a  figure  that  stood  with  folded  arms,  the  military  cap  drawn 
over  his  moody  brows,  looking  his  last  on  England — Lieuten- 
ant Cyril  Trevanion. 

As  the  steamer  puff'ed  its  way  out  into  the  stream,  farewell 
cheers  given  and  returned,  the  band  plajing  gayly  ''  The  Girl 
I  Left  Behind  Me,"  the  little  woman  on  the  pier,  with  a  sud- 
den motion,  flung  back  her  veil  and  made  her  way  to  the 
front. 

People  made  room  for  the  pretty,  girlish  face,  lighted  with 
its  brilliant  azure  eyes,  and  shaded  by  glittering  amber  ring- 
lets. 

As  by  mesmeric  force,  the  dark  eyes  of  the  solitary  gazer  on 
the  deck  turned  that  way  and  encountered  tho  brightly  smil- 
ing eyes,  the  dimpled,  roseate  face, 

°*  Bon  voyage,  Cyril!"  called  the  clear,  silvery  voice  of  the 
siren.     **  Lntil  we  meet  again,  adieu  and  au  revoir  P' 

He  never  moved.  The  steamer  snorted  and  puffed  her 
noisy  way  across  tlie  Thames,  until  the  pier  and  the  crowd 
were  but  black  species  against  the  sunlit  February  sky.  But 
the  last  sound  Cyril  Trevanion  heard  was  the  musical  voice  of 
the  woman  who  had  driven  him,  an  outcast  and  an  exile,  from 
his  native  land;  the  last  face  he  was  doomed  to  see  on  English 
soil,  the  fatal  face  of  Hose,  his  wife. 


« 


CHAPTER  VIL 

LA  PRINCESSE  TilEVANIOtT. 


>» 


"  And  after  fifteen  years  of  absence-  -fifteen  years  of  board- 
ing-school, of  sunny  Fraiice  and  Italy — it  is  home  again  to 
dear  old  Trevanion,  to  reign  mistress  of  an  inheritance  to 
rbich  I  possess  not  the  shadow  of  right.    Oh,  Cyril!  hero  ol 


WHO  wnrsP  il 

my  childhood,  dream  of  my  life,  will  you  ever  return  to  claim 
your  own — those  broad  acres  which  I  would  so  gladly  resign, 
your  lon^-lost  birthright?  Where,  weary  wanderer  that  he 
IS,  where  in  all  the  wide  earth  is  Cyril  Trevanion  to-day?" 

She  leaned  against  the  casement,  and  the  violet  eyes  that 
gazed  over  the  wide  expanse  of  pleasaunce,  of  swelling  meadow^ 
of  deep,  dark  woodlaiid,  of  velvet  lawn,  filled  with  slow  tears. 
A  beautiful  girl  of  nineteen,  tall,  stately  and  delicate  as  a 
young  queen;  the  graceful  figure,  with  its  indescribable,  high- 
bred air,  the  small  head  held  erect,  with  a  hauteur  that  wos 
as  unconscious  as  it  was  becoming;  almond  eyes  of  deepest 
violet,  that  could  soften  or  lighten,  melt  or  flash,  as  you  willed 
it,  in  the  same  instant;  and  waves  and  masses  of  rich,  dark- 
brown  hair,  some  warmer  shade  of  black,  worn  in  coils  and 
curls  in  a  gracefully  negligent  way  that  of  itself  might  have 
bewitched  you.  A  beautiful  girl,  a  trifle  proud  of  her  long 
lineage,  the  sang  azure  in  her  patrician  veins,  it  may  be.  A 
trifle  imperious  and  passionate  in  the  assertion  of  her  rights, 
or  the  wrongs  of  others,  but  sweet  and  true  and  tender  to  the 
core  of  her  heart.  Romantic  too,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of 
nineteen  to  be;  given  to  dreaming  over  Tennyson,  and  Alfred 
de  Musset,  and  Owen  Meredith,  and  gentlemen  of  that  ilk:  a 
hero- worshiper  and  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  all  beautiful  J  and 
mostly  impracticable.     That  was  Sybil  Lemox  Trevanion — im* 

I)etuous,  high-spirited,  high-tempered,  maybe,  at  times;  fear* 
ess  and  free,  and  lovely  as  your  dreams  of  the  angels. 

She  was  General  Trevanion's  legally  adopted  daughter  and 
heiress  now,  bearing  his  name  and  destined  to  reign  mistress 
over  all  these  fertile  acres  of  the  Trevanions. 

In  the  Parisian  boarding-school  where  she  had  been  "  fin- 
ished," the  gay  little  pensionnaircs  had  dubbed  the  haughty 
English  girl  *'  La  Princesse,"  and  the  name  became  hjr  welt 
But  no  fawn  of  the  forest  was  ever  gentler,  ever  more  yieldine, 
than  proud  "  La  Princesse  "  to  those  whom  she  loved;  and, 
like  a  true  Trevanion,  she  could  love  or  hate  with  a  terrible 
intensity  of  strength. 

She  stood  now  in  the  recess  of  a  deep  Maltese  window, 
wreathed  with  roses  and  honeysuckle  and  all  things  sweet— an 
exquisite  picture  in  an  exquisite  frame.  The  rich  Juno  sun- 
shine glowed  in  the  deep  red  hearts  of  those  fragrant  roses, 
and  sent  shafts  of  fire  athwart  the  brownish  blackness  of  the 
girl's  splendid  hair.  The  white  muslin  robe  she  wore,  with 
its  rosy  ribbons,  fluttered  in  the  faint,  soft  wind.  She  Wa» 
neither  a  pronounced  brunette  nor  blonde.  She  wore  pinky 
and  looked  lovely;  she  wore  blue,  and  looked  lovelier  still—* 


7!?^^*'J"''^^'^ 


I 


46 


WHO    WTSnt 


wear  what  she  might,  she  must  ever  bo  beautiful  aud  thor- 
ough-bred; do  what  the  would,  she  rau3t  ever  be  queenly.  It 
you  found  her  sweeping  a  crossitjg  for  pennies,  and  she  flashed 


upon  you  the  light  of  those  glorious  eyes,  you  would 
bated  your  breath  aud  passed  on,  and  left  her  "  La  Princ 


have 


mcesse 


ft 


Btill. 

She  was  quite  alone,  save  for  a  frisky  little  Italian  grey- 
hound and  a  big,  majostic  Newfoundland,  stretched  at  full 
jength  near,  and  looking  up  at  her  with  great,  lazy,  loving 
eyes.  As  she  stood  in  a  dreamy  reverie  of  the  hero  of  her  life 
— the  "Count  Lara"  exiled  from  his  father's  halls — Oyril 
Trevanion— she  espied  a  slender  young  man,  dusty  and  travel- 
stained,  sauntering  slowly  up  to  'the  house,  smoking  languidly 
as  he  walked.  One  glance,  and  the  young  lady  went  hastily 
forward  to  meet  him. 

"  It  Is*  Charley!"  she  said,  aloud.  "  Come,  Cyril,''  to  the 
Btately  Newfoundland;  "come,  Sybil,"  to  the  frisky  little 
Italian,  "  here  is  your  old  tormentor,  brother  Charley.*' 

She  tripped  away  down  the  linden  walk  and  encountered  the 
languid  traveler  under  the  trees.  He  was  her  only  brother, 
two  years  her  junior,  and  just  free  from  Eton.  The  resem- 
blance between  them  \.  as  very  marked  as  far  as  looks  went 
Charles  Lemox  was  singularly  handsome,  and  as  vain  of  his 
almond-shaped  eyes  and  slender  feet  and  hands  as  any  reign- 
ing belle;  but  there  all  resemblance  ended.  "  Dolce  jar 
niente  "  was  the  motto  by  which  Master  Charles  regulated  the 
lazy  tenor  of  his  life. 

"  How  do,  Sybil?"  Chi^rlev  said,  languidly,  throwing  away 
his  cheroot,  and  permitting  himself  to  be  impetuously  kissed, 
with  a  gentle  sigh  of  resignation.  "  Happy  to  see  you  again, 
and  looking  so  very  nicely,  too.  Surrounded  by  puppies  big 
and  little,  as  usual,  I  see— four-legged  ones.  Keally,  my 
beautiful  sister,  doing  the  grand  agrees  with  you.  You  are  as 
?osy  as  a  milkmaid.     And  how's  the  governor?" 

'  Don't  be  irreverent,  Charley,'-"  Sybil  answered,  pulling 
his  ear.  "  Poor  dear  uncle  is  no  better — rather  worse,  I  fear, 
if  anything.  But  then,  he  expected  it.  His  physicians  aU 
agreed  that  to  return  to  England  was  certain  death.  Still,  he 
would  come — his  heart  was  set  on  it.  '  What  does  it  matter,' 
he  answered  them,  impatiently,  '  whether  1  die  this  month  or 
next?  Sybil,  take  me  home,'  and  sio  here  we  are." 
^  "  Enainently  characteristic,"  Charley  said  in  his  slow,  draw- 
ling voice.  "  Stubboriines?,  1  beneve,  is  one  of  the  many 
agreeable  traits  of  the  Trevanions.  The  best  of  them  will  die 
before  they  yield  an  inch.     iJca't  catch  the  distemper,  if  you 


WHO   WlKtP 


fltn,  Sybil;  there's  nothing  in  life  worth  that  tr^ajprjjft: 
earaeBtness,  and  it  must  be  so  very  fatiguing!  You  have  a 
look  in  your  face  7iow  sometimes  that  reminds  me  of  those  de- 
termined-looking Ediths  and  Alices  in  farthingales  and  dia- 
mond stomachei-s  over  there  in  the  o]d  hall  at  Monkswood. 
By  the  bye,  are  the  family  portraits  left  to  go  to  the  dogs  with 
the  rest?'-' 

**  Yes,"  Sybil  answered,  with  a  sigh,  "  it  is  all  desolation 
at  Monkswood  Waste.  The  woodland  is  as  wild  as  some  Amer- 
ican forest,  the  ivy  trails  desolately  over  everything,  and  moth 
and  mildew,  the  wind  and  the  rats,  have  the  grand,  romantic 
old  house  all  to  themselves.  There  is  no  living  thing  there-r- 
not  even  a  watch-dog — and  General  Trevanion  will  not  hear 
its  name  mentioned,  the  dear  old  manor  in  which  hundreds  of 
his  race  have  lived  and  died." 

^*  Ahl '  Charley  said,  listening  to  this  impassioned  outburst 
with  serene  calm,  '*  that  unfortunate  constitutional  stubborn- 
ness again.  Here  we  are  at  the  house.  My  dear  Sybil,  per- 
mit me  to  sit  down,  and  be  good  enough  to  ring  for  seltzer 
and  sherry.  The  journey  from  London  and  the  walk  from  the 
park  gates  yonder  liave  really  completely  knocked  me  up." 

"  And  mamma?"  Sybil  said,  oheying  his  behest^  **  when 
does  she  come  to  Trevanion?" 

"  Much  sooner  than  is  agreeable  to  her  only  son.  I  am 
mamma's  avnnt  courier.  She  comes  before  the  end  of  the 
week,  and  Mrs.  Ingram  with  her." 

"Mrs.  Ingram!    Who  is  she?" 

**  Ah,  I  forgot — you  don't  know,  of  course.  Mrs.  Ingram 
is  Lady  Lemox's  bosom  friend — a  gushing  widow  of  five-and- 
twenty — if  one  may  venture  co  apeak  of  "a  lady's  age.  She's 
very  pretty,  very  petite^  very  good  style;  is  past-mistress  of 
the  art  of  putting  on  a  Jouvin  kid  and  tying  her  bonnet- 
strings;  waltzes  like  a  French  fairy,  sings  better  than  Mali- 
bran,  has  the  whitest  teeth  I  ever  saw  outside  of  a  dentist's 
ahow-case,  and  a  chevehtre  of  inky  blackness  that  would  make 
any  hair-dresser's  fortune.  She  reads  to  my  lady,  writes  her 
notes,  sings  her  asleep,  and  attends  to  the  comforts  of  her  pet 
pugs  and  poodles.  They  met  in  the  Highlands  last  year,  and 
were  struck  with  a  sudden  and  great  love  for  each  other,  after 
the  fashion  of  womankind.  The  little  widow  was  companion, 
then,  to  the  worst-tempered  old  woman  in  the  three  king- 
doms, her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Strathbane,  and  after  putting 
up  with  her  for  two  years,  you  will  own,  Sybil,  she  can  be  but 
one  remove  from  an  angel.  The  duchess  went  to  glory  up 
there  at  Strathbane  Castle,  and  Lady  Lemox  pounced  upon  Ut 


46 


WHO    WINS? 


.They  have  been  female  Siamese  twius  since — Orestes 
aJi^^rvWes  in  petticoats.  Where  my  lady  goes,  the  widow 
goes— her  country  is  the  widow's  country — where  she  dies,  the 
widow  will  die.  Isn't  that  Scripture,  or  something,  Sybil?  It 
sounds  like  it.  Ah,  thank  Heaven!  here  is  the  seltzer  and 
sherry,  and  I  am  really  so  parched  from  excessive  talking  that 
—hand  me  the  glass,  my  dear  "—to  the  little  waitress—"  it 
must  be  that  garrulity  is  "infectious,  Sybil,  and  that  I  catch  the 
lisorder  from  you,  Vm  not  like  this  upon  ordinary  occasions, 
I  find  conversation  rather  a  bore  than  otherwise;  but  when  I 
come  to  Trevanion,  I  beat  all  the  gossiping  dowagers  I  ever  ^ 
met." 

Sybil  laughed. 

*'  You  do  talk,  Charley,  and  as  much  nonsense  as  ever. 
Well,  if  your  Mrs.  Ingram  is  agreeable  and  amuses  mamma, 
I  shall  be  very  happy  to  welcome  her  to  Trevanion." 

"Don't  call  her  my  Mrs.  Ingram,"  Charley  remonstrated, 
plaintively.  *' She  isn't.  I  would  have  kissed  her  when  I 
came  away,  but  she  declined.  She's  one  of  the  intensely  proper 
sort,  you  perceive.  As  though,"  said  Charley,  still  more 
plaintively,  "  a  seraph  might  not  embrace  me,  and  come  to  no 
harm  by  it." 

"  Charley,  don't  be  absurd!  I  spend  the  evening  at  Chud- 
leigh.     Suppose  you  come." 

"  Thanks — no — too  much  trouble.  And  it's  so  dreadfully 
exhausting  to  watch  that  girl,  Gwendoline.  I  hate  girls  that 
bounce,  and  bang  doors,  and  make  eyes  at  a  fellow.  She's 
jolly,  I  admit,  and  sings  *  The  Pretty  Little  Rat-catcher's 
Daughter '  to  perfpction;  hit —  By  the  bye,  Sybil,  I  met  a 
cousin  of  hers,  a  gallant  major  in  the  cavalry  branch  of  the 
service,  deer-stalking  last  autumn  at  Strathbane.  He  came 
up  with  Lord  Angus — home  from  the  Crimea,  with  his  blush- 
ing honors  thick  upon  him — and  he  told  me  lots  about  your 
demi-god,  Cyril  Trevanion." 

*'  Oh,  Charley!"  with  a  little  gasp.  **  And  you  never  told 
me  before!" 

"  Don't  be  reproachful,  my  doar.  You  can't  expect  every 
one  to  dream  by  night  and  muse  by  day  on  the  lost  heir  of 
Monkswood.  No,  I  never  told  you  before,  because  I  hate 
writing  long  letters,  and  it  would  have  taken  a  ream  at  least 
of  best  Bath  laid  to  have  satisfied  yoti  on  that  subject.  And 
then  there  is  really  nothing  to  tell  you  but  what  you  take  for 
arranted,  and  the  Times  has  told  you  ah'eady.  He  came  dowr 
Lite  the  wolf  to  the  fold,  dealing  death  and  destruction  to 
8ikh)B  and  Sepoys,  and  woe  to  the  turban  upon  which  his  saber 


WBO    WIVS  f  4$ 

d«toended.  Thev  made  him  a  captain  out  in  India,  a  major  be* 
fore  the  walls  of  Sebastopol,  ana  a  colonel  when  he  rode  with 
the  Six  Hundred  up  the  heights  of  Balaklava.  It  really  turned 
me  uncomlortably  warm  to  hear  Major  Powerscourt  talk  about 
him,  he  grew  so  terribly  enthusiastic.  He  got  a  bullet  in  th* 
hip,  and  a  saber-cut  across  the  face,  and  no  end  of  unpleasant 
things  of  that  sort.  So  don't  heave  away  your  young  affections 
upon  him,  my  hero-worshiping  sister.  He  muet  be  ugly  as  a 
Hindoo  idol  by  this  time.*' 

But  Sybil's  delicate  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  the  great,  deep 
eyes  ilashing  through  unshed  tears. 

"  I  knew  ill"  she  said  under  her  breath — "  I  knew  it!  The 
Trevanions  were  ever  *  without  fear  and  without  reproach.* 
And  to  think  that  I — that  J,  a  useless,  good-fdr-ncthmg  girl, 
should  usurp  his  rights — should  reign  where  he  ought  to  be 
king!    Oh,  Charley,  I  hate  myself  when  I  think  of  it!" 

**  Do  you  indeed?"  said  Charley,  politely  strugglin,?  with  a 
yawn.  **  Very  likely.  You  are  ahvays  absurd.  But  could 
you  intimate  as  much  quietly?  It  is  rather  preposterous  in 
General  Trevanion  making  you  his  heiress,  while  J  am  to  the 
fore;  but  these  old  antediluvians  are  always  blinder  than  bats. 
As  to  your  Chevalier  Bayard,  he  may  be  without  fear;  but  he 
certainly  is  not  without  the  other  thing.  He  ran  away  at 
nineteen  with  a  ballet-dancer.  You  know  that  story.  Good 
Heaven!"  exclaimed  the  Etonian,  growing  almost  excited, 
"  what  an  inconceivable  donkey  he  must  have  been!  The  idea 
of  any  fellow  taking  a  wife  at  nineteen,  though  she  were  a 
princess  royal!  Don't  fall  in  love  with  a  married  man,  Sybil, 
and  don't  flash  the  light  of  your  angry  eyes  upon  me  for  sug- 
gesting it.  I'm  your  only  brother,  and  it's  my  dutv  to  im- 
prove your  morals.  Besides,  you'll  never  see  hun.  He's  gone 
to  Spanish  America. ' ' 

Sybil's  face,  almost  inspired  while  she  listened  to  Cyril  Tro- 
TBuion's  praise,  fell  and  clouded  suddenly. 

**  Did  Major — I  forget  the  name — tell  you  that,  too?" 

**  That,  and  no  end  besides — I  don't  remember  half.  He's 
;^one  to  South  America,  however;  and  very  likely  civil  wars, 
or  tropical  fevers,  or  earthquakes,  or  some  of  the  other  de- 
lightful things  in  style  out  there,  have  sent  him  toes  up  long 
ago.  At  least,  I  hope  so  for  my  own  sake — it  will  be  so  nice 
by  and  by,  when  you  come  into  the  proi)erty,  and  can  pay  off 
a  fellow's  debts,  and  keep  him  in  unlimited  small  change. 
Please  don't  burst  out  indignantly,  Sybil,  as  I  see  you  are 
about  to  do,"  Charley  concluded,  deprecatingly,  getting  up. 
"  I'm  exhausted  already,  and  I  really  couldn't  staml  it.  What 


do 


WSO   WBfi  f 


time  do  you  dine  in  this  primeval  wigwam?  Lilce  George  tbe 
T^iird,  I  dare  say,  at  one  o'cloclc,  upon  boiled  mutton  and 
tu^ipK** 

**^Wo  dine  at  seven,  when  General  Trevanion  is  able  to 
'kiweliis  room.    He  will  not  come  down  to-day,  and  7  am  go- 
lug  to  Chudleigh  Chase;  bo  unless  you  accompany  me—" 

^*  *  Oh,  Solitude,  where  are  thy  charms!'  Yes,  I'll  go, 
Sybil.  Anything  is  better  than  a  lonely  knife  and  fork  and 
plate— an  oasis  in  a  vast  desert  of  dining-table.  I'll  go  tc 
Chudleigh  Chase,  my  Sybil,  and  face  that  terrible  Gwendo- 
line, in  her  violent  pink  dresses,  her  bouncing  and  her  bang- 
ing, and  all  the  cut  and  dried  platitudes  of  that  old  stick,  bir 
Rupert,  rather  than  impair  my  temper  and  digestion  by  dinine 
mournfully  alone.  I  suppose  to-morrow  will  be  time  enough 
to  ay  my  respects  to  the  lord  of  the  manor?  One  can't  en- 
dure too  much  in  one  day.     Farewell!" 

With  which  the  Etonian  strolled  away,  and  left  his  sister 
alone  in  the  sunlit,  rose- wreathed  window. 

**  Gone  to  Spanish  America!"  she  thought.  "  Will  he  ever 
come  back?  Will  he  ever  know  that  his  memory  and  his  im- 
age are  dearer  to  Sybil  Lemox  than  any  living  man  can  ever 
be?  I  remember  that  last  night  at  the  gate — does  hcj  I  won- 
der?— when  he  kissed  me,  a  little  child  of  four,  under  the  oaks 
at  Monkswood,  and  bid  me  wear  this  ring  for  his  sake."  A 
solitaire  diamond  glittered  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand, 
the  only  ring  she  wore.  "  Except  my  mother  and  Charley,  I 
have  kissed  no  one  since.  My  hero!  my  brave,  lion-hearted 
Cyril!  If  he  would  only  come  back  and  take  all!  If  1  could 
only  see  him  safe  and  happy  once  more,  I  would  have  nothing 
left  on  earth  to  wish  for." 

Miss  Trevanion  drove  her  brother  over  to  Chudleigh  Chase 
in  the  pony-phaeton  a  little  later,  through  the  amber  haze  of 
the  June  sunset.  Sir  Rupert  Chudleigh  was  their  nearest 
neighbor,  and  Miss  Gwendoline  Chudleigh  the  aversion  of 
Charley,  and  Sybil's  devoted  admirer  and  friend.  They  vis- 
ited each  other  at  all  times  and  all  seasons,  after  the  fashion 
of  girls,  and  little  Gwendoline,  who  was  only  sixteen — plump 
as  a  partridge,  and  rosy  as  any  female  "  chaw-bacon  "  in 
Sussex— pretty  well  idolized  beautiful  Sybil  Trevanion. 

Next  morning  Charley  paid  his  respects  to  General  Trevan- 
ion, and  announced  the  coming  of  his  mother  and  her  com- 
panion. The  old  lion,  with  hair  like  a  winter  snow-drift  now, 
and  a  face  deep-plowed  with  hidden  care  and  cureless  illness, 
lay  in  his  darkened  room,  and  listened  impatiently. 

"Let  them  come!"  he  said:  "a  poodle  dog  or  a  widow — 


imo  wnfif 


il 


what  does  it  matter,  so  that  Lady  Lemox  and  her  pets  don't 
trouble  ms.  Keep  your  mother  and  her  widow  out  of  out 
way,  Sybil,  my  dear;  and  Charley,  the  less  I  see  of  you,  the 
better  I  shall  like  it.     Hobbledehoys  were  always  my  arer- 


Bion." 

"  Pleasant!'*  said  Charley,  in  eoliloquy,  "  very  I  Hobblede- 
hoys, indeed!  Really,  Sybil,  the  old  men  of  the  present  day 
are  the  horrideat  bari)arian8  that  ever  cumbered  the  earth.  1 
hope  his  venerable  noddle  won't  ache  until  1  ask  to  see  him 
again."  , 

Sybil  barely  repressed  a  laugh  at  her  brother's  wrath  and 
astonishment. 

"  Charley,  don't  talk  slang — I  hate  it!  And  I  must  insist 
upon  your  speaking  more  respectfully  of  my  guardian,  or  not 
speaking  at  all." 

The  morning  of  the  next  day  brought  a  telegram  from  Lady 
Lemox.  She  would  arrive  at  Speckhaven  by  the  four-forty 
train  from  London,  and  they  were  to  meet  her  at  the  station 
with  the  carriage.     Sybil  told  the  general  the  news. 

**  Very  well,"  was  the  response.  *'  I  don't  care  when  she 
comes,  but  I  can't  spare  you  to  go  and  meet  her.  Let  Charley 
take  the  carriage  and  go,  and  inform  Lady  Lemox  that  when 
I  desire  to  see  her  I'll  send  her  word." 

So  Charley  went  alone,  and  in  state,  to  meet  my  lady  and 
her  companion.  The  station,  like  all  stations,  was  at  the  fag 
end  of  the  town,  a  dreary  island  in  a  sea  0:°  swamp  and  sandy 
plain,  which  the  young  man  barely  reached  in  time  as  the 
afternoon  train  rushed  snorting  in.  He  sauntered  forward 
leisurelv  to  meet  his  mother — a  little  d  irk  woman,  with  a 
fretful,  faded  face  that  had  been  pretty  once;  and  her  com- 
panion, a  bright  little  beauty  with  great  black  eyes,  a  pleasant 
smile,  and  abundant  glossy  black  hair. 

**  Had  Sybil  come?"  Lady  Lemox  peevishly  asked.  **  No? 
how  very  unkind  and  ungrateful  of  her,  when  she.  Lady  Lem- 
ox, had  not  seen  her  for  three  years.  Children,  nowadays, 
were  utterly  heartless — no  doubt  General  Trevanion  absorbed 
all  her  affection  by  this. time.  And  how  was  the  general?  Fit 
to  die  of  chronic  crossness  and  ill-temper!  Really,  Charles, 
such  language  was  intolerable.  Edith,"  to  the  black-eyed 
widow,  **  pray  see  that  all  those  boxes  and  parcels  are  carefully 
disposed  01.  Those  railway  porters  are  so  rough  and  uncouth. 
Charles,  do  make  haste  and  get  us  home — 1  am  almost  dead 
of  fatigue  and  headache." 

All  the  way  to  the  Park,  Lady  Lemox  ran  fretfully  on  in 
a  sort'  of  dismal  monologue,  growing  so  monotonous  that  it 


./ 


59 


WHO  mxsf 


lulled  Charley  into  Rontle  alumber  before  they  reached  the 
house.  Sybil  met  them  at  the  door,  and  threw  herself,  after 
her  impulsive  fashion,  into  her  motlier's  arms. 

"  Dear  mamma!  darling  mamma!  how  glad  I  am  to  meet 
you  again.  How  long  it  seema  since  wo  parted  at  Lemox. 
And,  dearest  mamma,  how  very  well  you  are  looking,  too!" 

"Looking  w-^U!"  her  ladyship  murmured,  reproachfully. 
"  Sybil,  how  ca)i  you,  when  1  am  almost  dead!  Ion  are  look- 
ing the  jHctut6  of" health,  I  must  say— quite  too  healthy-look- 
,.  iugfor  my  taste;  but  there  are  people  who  admire  that  red 
'  and  white  stylo  of  thing,  I  dare  say.  My  dear,  this  is  Mrs. 
Ingram— Edith,  my  daughter,  Sybil.  I  hope  you  have  seen 
that  her  rooms  are  as  convenient  to  mine  as  possible — I  really 
could  not  exist  without  her  help  nov^  Delphine,"  to  her 
French  maid,  '*  take  these  things  up— I  am  completely  worn 
out,  and  must  lie  down  before  I  dress." 

Sybil  herself  led  the  way  upstairs,  and  showed  the  travelers 
to  their  apartments.  Lady  Lemox  was  made  lui])py — or  as 
happy  as  it  was  in  her  nature  to  be — by  finding  Mrs.  Ingram's 
rooms  immediately  adjoining  her  own. 

**  We  dine  at  seven,"  Sybil  said,  "  and  quite  alone.  Gen- 
eral Trevanion  is  not  well  enough  to  quit  hi3  chamber,  and 
Charley,  I  believe,  will  mess  with  the  oilicers  at  Speckhaven. 
You  win  find  our  life  at  Trevanion  a  very  dull  one,  I  fear, 
Mrs.  Ingram." 

**  I  am  used  to  quiet,  dear  Miss  Trevanion, ' '  the  pretty 
widow  said,  with  a  brilliant  smile,  *'  and  prefer  it.  How  very 
charming  these  rooms  are,  and  what  a  delightful  place  Tre- 
vanion is!" 

She  closed  the  door  gently  after  the  young  lady,  and  lin- 
gered for  an  instant  alone,  before  joining  Lady  Lemox,  stand- 
ing by  one  of  the  windows,  and  gazing  over  the  wide  domain, 
very  fair  in  the  light  of  the  radiant  June  sunset. 

"A  delightful  place  indeed!"  she  repeated,  under  her 
breath;  "  and  at  last  I  enter  Trevanion  in  spite  of  them  all. 
To  think  that  all  this — all  this,  and  more,  might  once  have 
been  mine!  To  think  that  I  might  have  been  mistress  here, 
instead  of  that  imperious  girl!  And  for  me  he  has  lost  this 
noble  heritage: — for  poor  little  me  !  If  Cyril  Trevanion  were 
my  worst  enemy,  I  could  hardly  wish  him  worse." 

The  :iiree  ladies  ihied  a1  ^ne  together,  and  the  pretty  widow 
was  the  mo3t  gorgeous  of  tnp  hree.  in  amber  silk  and  flutter- 
hig  ribisong.  Sybil,  grai  •  \  and  stately  in  dark  blue,  with 
pearls  in  her  rich  ^air,  and  a  .  lalf -shattered  rose  in  her  breast^ 


WHO  wiini  ? 


•8 


looked  at  her  across  the  table,  with  great,  clear,  eammt  eyes, 
Ai  she  talked ^ayl J  in  the  sweetest  and  most  silvery  o!  Toicei. 

"  Why  do  f  not  like  her?"  Miss  Trevanion  thought.  "  Sha 
is  very  pretty,  very  pleasant;,  and  a  lady  without  doubt.  Wh? 
do  I  dislike  her,  then?  and  are  those  great  dark  eyes  bold,  and 
that  brilliant  smile  false?  or  is  it  only  my  unkind  fancy?" 

It  was  the  old  rhyme  of  "  Doctor  Ftll  "  over  again. 

•♦  1  do  not  like  you,  Doctor  Fell, 
The  renson  why  I  can  not  tell; 
But  this  I  only  know  full  well, 
1  do  not  like  you,  Doctor  Fell." 

They  lingered  late  in  the  drawing-room.  Lady  Lemox  had 
an  aversion  to**  early  to  bed,  and  arly  to  rise,"  and  there 
was  music  to  while  away  the  hours  of  the  summer  night.  Mrs. 
Ingram  played  as  brilliantly  as  she  talked,  and  simg  more 
sweetly  than  she  smiled,  in  the  richest  of  contraltos.  Sybil 
listened  enchanted,  and  sung  ducts  with  her,  and  half  forgot 
her  unreasonable  dislike.  They  lingered  so  long  that  Charley, 
riding  homeward  through  the  misty  moonlight,  a  little  flushed 
and  heated  after  the  wassail,  found  them  still  chanting  their 
canticles,  and  my  lady  turning  over  a  volume  of  prints. 

**  What  a  dissipated  lot  you  are!"  the  Etonian  said,  politely; 
"  singing  matins,  I  suppose,  as  those  gay  old  coves,  the  friars, 
used  to  do  over  there  at  Monkswood.  Speaking  of  Monks- 
wood,  S3'bil,"  said  Charley,  hiccoughing  rather,  '*  I  heard  a 
piece  of  news  to-night  that  will  interest  you,  I  met  a  man  at 
the  mess — a  Captain  Hawksley,  of  the  Fortieth  Heavies — and' 
he  told  me  he  saw  the  idol  of  your  young  affections,  Cyril 
Trevanion,  a  week  ago  in  London.  He'd  been  sick,  it  seems, 
not  to  say  seedy,  and  an  object  of  compassion  to  gods  and 
men.  Told  Hawksley  he  thought  of  coming  down  here  to  re- 
cruit—native air,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Good-night, 
ladies.  Suppose  you  sing,  *  We  won't  go  home  till  mornmg,' 
by  way  ol  finale,  and  wind  up  the  performance." 

Mrs.  Ingram  had  been  playing  softly  while  Charley  talked: 
but  at  the  sound  of  Captam  llawksley's  and  Cyril  Trevanion's 
names,  her  hands  feL  heavily  with  a  crash  upon  the  keys.  She 
sat  still  for  an  instant  after  the  tipsy  Etonian  had  left  the 
room,  and  when  she  did  rise,  Sybil  saw  that  the  pretty,  pi" 
quante  face  had  turned  of  a  dead  waxen  whiteness  from  brow 
to  chin. 


M 


WHO  wnrsf 


fi 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

SYBIL'S     VICTOBT. 


Lady  Lemox,  among  her  pet  aversions — and  she  had  many 
--classed  early  rising  as  the  chief.  She  liked  to  get  up  be- 
tween  ten  and  eleven,  saunter  through  her  bath,  and  her 
dressing,  and  her  chocolate,  a  tete-a-tete  breakfast  with  Mrs. 
Ingram,  reading  aloud  tbe  Morning  Post,  and  get  out  when 
the  day  was  properly  warmed  for  her.  The  dulcefar  nientt 
may  have  come  honestly  enough  to  Charley— inherited  from 
his  lady-mother. 

On  the  morning  rxfter  her  arrival  at  Trevanion,  my  lady, 
strolling  into  her  hovdoir  at  half  past  eleven,  to  breakfast, 
found  that  elegant  apartment  deserted  to  the  geraniums  in  the 
windows  and  the  bright  summer  sunshine.  It  was  Mrs.  In- 
gram's dutiful  wont  to  await  her  patroness  in  an  elegant  demi- 
toilet,  her  smiles  »3  fresh  as  her  crisp  muslin  robe,  and  her 
perfumed  hair  shining  as  brightly  as  her  starry  eyes;  but  to- 
Gay  the  handsome  widow  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Ingram,  Delphine?"  my  lady  crossly  asked. 
"  Not  sleeping  still,  surely?"  ^ 

"  No,  madame,"  the  French  girl  answered  in  her  native 
tongue.  "  Madame  Ingram  v/as  up  and  away  over  two  hours 
ago.     Ah  I  she  comes  here.' 

The  door  opened  as  the  chamber-maid  spoke,  and  Edith 
Ingram,  her  dark,  delicate  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  sparkling, 
her  dress  less  elegantly  perfect  than  usual,  came  hastily  for- 
ward. 

"  I  have  not  kept  you  waiting,  I  trust,  dear  Lady  Lemox?'* 
she  said.  "  I  had  no  idea  I  would  be  absent  nearly  so  long; 
nor  would  I,  but  that  I  met  your  danglicer,  and  she  very  kind- 
ly showed  me  through  the  house.  Why,"  with  a  silvery  little 
laugh,  *'  I  was  up  and  out  this  morning  with  the  lark,  and 
Miss  Sybil — who  is  an  earlier  bird  still — and  over  to  Monks- 
wood  Waste,  before  the  dew  was  off  the  roses." 

**  To  Monkswood!"  repeated  Lady  Leinox,  in  surprise. 
**  What  on  earth  took  yon.  to  Monkswood,  Edith?" 

*'  Simple  curiosity,  1  am  afraid.  One  likes  to  see  a  haunted 
house  some  time  in  one's  life.  I  did  not  sleep  well  last  night, 
and  I  was  glad,  when  morning  came,  to  get  out,  for  I  felt  half 
sick  and  feverish.  I  walked  on  and  on,  tempted  by  the  beauty 
of  the  morning — early  rising  %s  delightful,  once  one  is  fairly  up 
and  out — and  I  found  myst;]"  at  the  Priory  gates  before  I  knew 


WHO    WDTS  F 


65 


it.    Of  eourae  I  entered,  and  went  dowu  the  Prior's  Walk;* 
but  the  ghostly  monk,  cowled  and  cloaked,  did  not  appear. 
Instead,  1  met  Miss  Trevanion,  and  she  showed  me  the  dear 
old  place." 

*' Met  Sybil!'*  exclaimed  Sybil's  mother,  still  more  sur- 
prised. "  And  what  took  her  there,  pray,  at  such  an  un- 
christian hour?  Really,  it  is  the  most  extraordinary  girl  I  Up 
and  away  to  that  desolate  old  deserted  house  before  six  in  the 
morning!" 

Mrs.  Ingram  laughed  her  gayest  laugh,  as  she  seated  herself 
opposite  my  lady  and  poured  out  the  fragrant  chocolate. 

"  It  is  Miss  Trevanion's  daily  pilgrimage,  I  fancy.  If  one 
can  not  dwell  in  the  presence  of  ^he  rose,  it  is  something  to 
visit  the  abode  of  that  splendid  flower.  If  she  can  not  see  the 
lost  heir  of  Monkswood,  it  is  pleasant  to  pay  her  matin  adora- 
tion at  his  shrine.  I  greatly  fear  your  daughter  Avill  lose  her 
inheritance,  dear  Lady  Lemox,  now  that  Colonel  Trevanion 
has  returned  from  Spanish  America." 

"  I  wasn't  aware  he  had  gone  to  Spanish  America,"  my 
lady  said,  sharply.     "  Prav,  Edith,  who  told  you  f" 

"  I — I  scarcely  remember,"  murmured  the  widow,  just  a 
thought  confused.  "  I  heard  it  somewhere,  how^ever.  And 
now  he  is  back — Charley  said  so  last  night,  at  least." 

"  Those  odious  officers!  those  horrible  mess  dinners!"  cried 
Lady  Lemox,  with  asperity.  "  That  dreadful  boy  was  halt 
intoxicated  last  night,  and  I  don't  believe  knew  what  he  wae 
saying.  But  supposing  Cyril  Trevanion  were  to  come  back  to 
England — and  it  isn't  in  the  least  likel}- — he  could  not  dispos- 
sess Sybil.  The  will  is  made — was  made  years  ago.  All  ex- 
cept the  Priory  goes  to  her.  General  Trevanion  will  not 
change  his  mind.  The  laws  of  Draco  were  never  more  immu- 
table than  the  *  I  will '  of  the  Trevanions." 

"  Ah!"  the  widow  said,  softly,  buttering  her  waffle.  "  Very 
likely.  I  don't  dispute  it.  The  general  may  not  change  his 
mind,  but  your  daughter  VvLU  resign  all.  fle  is  the  hero  of 
her  dreams.  She  is  romantic,  and  a  soldier-worshiper,  like  all 
girls,  dear  Lady  Lemox,  with  quixotic  notions  of  duty,  a:3d 
right,  and  self-abnegation,  and  all  that.  She  will  lay  her 
kingdom  at  Count  Lara's  feet  when  that  darhng  of  the  gods 
appears,  and,  unless  1  am  greatly  mistaken,  her  own  fair  self 
as  well." 

"  Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  her  ladyship  in  shrill  indigna- 
tion, **  what  do  you  mean,  Edith  Ingram?  Herself  as  welll 
How  dare  you  insinuate  such  a  thing!  A  soldier  of  fortune — 
tax  adyenturer — a  wanderer — Heaven  knows  what!     A  mai^ 


fl« 


WHO    WINS? 


I 


ried  man,  and  just  double  her  age.    Are  you  taking  leave  of 

yonr  senses?"  .^         t        i  ^^. 

"  No,  madame.  And  if  he  comes  you  will  see  I  speak  the 
truth.  Nay,  it  is  my  firm  belief  she  will  persuade  his  father 
to  forgive  him,  to  send  for  him,  to  make  him  his  heir.  Dear- 
est Lady  Lemox,  it  is  for  your  sake  I  speak.  Consider  how 
unpleasant  it  would  be  for  you,  aft'^r  your  daughter's  brilliant 
prospects,  to  find  her  disinlieritec,  u.A  all  through  her  own 
mistaken  sense  of  right.  Do  not  be  offended  with  me,  deai 
friend.  Speak  to  Sybil  herself,  and  see  whether  or  not  I  am 
odistaken  ' 

"  I  will,"  said  Ladv  Lemox,  decisively.  "  I'll  speak  to  her 
at  once,  too.  Good  Heaven!  it  isn't  possible  my  daughter 
could  be  so  infatuated  an  idiot.  And  if  she  was,  the  general 
would  not  relent,  let  her  plead  as  she  chose." 

"  Ah,  my  lady,"  the  widow  murmured,  plaintivelj%  "  he  is 
1        an  old  man,  and  an  only  son  is  very  dear.     Long  years  of  ab- 
i        sence  have  softened  his  heart.  He  may  be  too  proud  to  change 
unsolicited,  but  let  his  favorite  adopted  daughter  speak  but 
I  .  one  word  of  pleading  for  the  son  he  once  idolized,  and  you  will 

1/  eee  the  result. " 

Lady  Lemox  seized  the  bell-rope  impetuously,  and  rang  a 
peal  that  brought  Helphine  flying. 

"Find  Miss  Trevanion,  and  send  her  here  at  once  I  Tell 
her  I  want  her  particularly." 

"  And  pray,  don't  mention  7iiy  name,"  entreated  the  wid- 
ow, as  Delphine  disappeared.  "  She  would  consider  it  a  very 
unnecessary,  not  to  say  impertinent,  intervention  on  my  part. 
She  is  very  proud.  She  would  not  endure  for  an  instant  any 
miwarrantable  interference." 

"  I  shall  say  nothing  about  you,"  responded  my  lady,  in  a 
very  ill-temper  indeed.  **  You  may  leave  the  room,  if  you 
prefer,  Mrs.  Ingram." 

^  But  Mrs.  Ingram  preferred  to  stay.  She  was  in  a  recess  of 
/the  window,  bending  over  the  geraniums  and  guelder  roseSj. 
when  Miss  Trevanion,  her  head  erect,  her  light  step  stately, 
her  eyes  a  little  surprised,  entered  her  mother's  sitting-room. 

It  had  been  a  morning  of  surprises,  rather,  to  Sybil.  When 
Mrs.  Ingram  stated  that  the  heiress  of  General  Trevanion  was 
in  the  daily  habit  of  visiting  Monkswood,  Mrs.  Ingram  had 
shrewdly  guessed  very  near  the  truth.  Always  an,  early  riser, 
she  was  mostly  out  and  av/ay  for  a  breezy  morning  walk  amid 
the  dewy  grass,  with  the  ricing  sun  and  the  singing  larks;  and 
those  morning  walks,  as  a  rule,  were  to  the  deserted  Priory. 
On  this  morning,  as  shs^  opened  a  little  door  in  one  ol  th* 


WHO   WINSf 


67 


Asny  gables,  and  let  herself  in^  she  was  astonished  to  behold  « 
female  figure,  with  its  back  to  her,  standing  absorbed  before  a 
picture,  in  what  had  been  the  amber  drawing-room.  It  had 
startled  her  a  little  at  first;  but  Sybil  was  not  in  the  least  a 
nervous  young  lady,  and  a  second  glance  revealed  her  moth- 
er's companion — the  brilliant  widow.  The  picture  before 
whi'jh  she  stood,  with  the  strangest  expression  of  face,  was  the 
portrait  of  Cyril  Trevanion,  taken  in  his  gay  hussar  uniform — 
a  gift  to  his  father  upon  his  nineteenth  birthday. 

"Mrs.  Ingram!"  Sybil  exclaimed,  in  ungovernable  aston- 
ishment.    **  You  here?" 

Mrs.  Ingram  wheeled  round.  It  did  not  often  happen  to 
her  to  change  color,  but  a  hot-red  flush  darkened  cheek  and 
brow  at  this  rencontre.  For  one  second  the  eminently  self- 
possessed  Edith  was  at  a  loss.  Then  she  burst  out  into  one  of 
her  musical  laughs,  and  held  out  her  gloved  hand. 

"  Dear  Miss  Trevanion!  how  J  must  have  startled  you.  Did 
you  think  it  was  one  of  the  mythical  monks  telling  his  ghostly 
rosary?  Pray,  don't  imagine  you  are  the  only  person  in  exist- 
ence awake  to  the  benefit  of  early  rising,  or  to  be  deluded  into 
a  charming  walk  under  waviiig  trees.  And  the  walk  from 
Trevanion  to  Monkswood  Waste  is  enchanting — one  long, 
leafy  arcade." 

**  Pray,  how  did  you  get  in?"  Sybil  said,  very  coldly.  That 
aversion  at  first  sight,  almost  forgotten  in  her  brilliance  last 
evening,  returned  stronger  than  ever.  Somehow  it  had  given 
her  a  most  unpleasant  sensation  to  see  this  woman  standing, 
with  that  absorbed  face,  before  the  picture  of  her  hero.  **  Mrs. 
Telfer  keeps  all  the  keys  of  the  Priory,  except  one  that  opens 
a  little  door  in  yonder  turret.  You  are  not  a  witch,  I  trust, 
Mrs.  Ingram,  and  capaple  of  whisking  through  key-holes?" 

Again  Mrs.  Ingram  laughed — and  the  silvery  peal  grated 
discordantly  on  Sybil's  ear. 

"  Dear  Miss  Trevanion!  What  a  droll  idea!  No,  indeed— 
I  wish  I  were.  What  fun  it  would  be!  Oh,  no;  I  came 
through  the  window  near  the  south  entrance;  I  shook  it — only 
the  ivy  and  the  honeysuckle  held  it  down,  and  I  raised  it  aa 
easy  as  possible,  and  crept  through.  Just  fancy  what  a  figure 
I  cut,  creeping  like  a  burgliir  through  a  window!"  Again 
that  hilarious  laugh.  "  But  now,  dearest  Miss  Trevanion,  we 
are  here,  and  together,  and  as  I  am  positively  dying  to  see 
this  dear,  romantic  old  house,  will  you  not  good-naturedly  turn 
cicerone,  and  show  it  to  me?  I  am  certain  it  must  be  full  of 
sliding  panels,  and  hidden  trap-doors,  and  subterranean  pa»» 


!« 


9« 


WHO  wnw? 


sages,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  and  the  pictures  I  hnow  an 

superb." 

^*  There  is  very  little  time,'*  Sybil  said,  drawing  out  her 
watch.  "  I  always  attend  to  the  general'?;  breakfast  myself, 
and— however,"  with  a  bright,  smiling  courtesy  indicative  of 
the  lady  born  and  bred,  "  I  will  be  most  hap|)y  to  show  you  as 
much  of  the  house  as  we  can  possibly  see  in  half  an  hour. 
There  ure  secret  passages  and  hidden  doors  in  the  Priory;  but 
I  am  ignorant  of  their  mysteries,  so  I  can  not  point  them  out. 
You  were  looking  at  my  cousin's  portrait— very  good,  is  it 
not?  You  never  saw  him,  of  course;  but  still  you  can  easily 
ter.  that  it  is  an  excellent  picture.'' 

Mrs.  Ingram  turned  to  look  at  it  once  more. 

*''  To,"  siic!  sMJd,  with  a  queer  smile,  "  1  never  saw  your 
cousin,  of  course;  but  the  picture,  as  you  sav,  is  a  work  of 
art.     How  very,  very  handsome  he  must  have  been!'' 

**The  Trevanions  are  all  handsome,"  Sybil  said.  **Thafe 
sounds  conceited,"  with  a  smile;  "  but  I  don't  mean  it  so. 
Yes,  he  was  handsome  as  an  angel.  Poor  Cyril!  I  remember 
him  perfectly,  young  as  I  was;  and  I  loved  him  so  very,  very 
dearly.*' 

"  He  -  tenderly  she  says  it,"  the  widow  laughed.  "  Pm 
afraid  you  love  him  still,  dearest  Sybil.  I  mat/  call  you  Sj?bil, 
may  I  not?  and  you  will  oall  me  Edith?  There  are  men,  they 
say,  good  enough  and  brave  enough  and  handsome  enough  to 
die  for,  and  he  looks  as  if  he  might  be  one  of  them.  1  navo 
never  met  any  of  those  male  demi-gods  myself;  still,  very 
likely  they  exist.  But  he  is  a  married  man,  is  he  not,  my 
dear?  Very  sad  story,  his — Charley  told  it  me — and  she  was 
an  improper  person,  was  she  not?  Poor  fellow!  to  be  so  de- 
luded, and  at  nineteen.  And  these  sort  of  women  live  forever. 
No  doubt  the  dreadful  creature  is  in  existence  yet.  And  there 
never  was  even  a  divorce,  was  there?" 

"  There  was  none  needed,"  Sybil  said,  haughtily,  her 
cheeks  flushing,  her  eyes  lighting.  "  It  was  no  marriage — 
there  was  not  even  a  license — they  were  married  at  Gretna 
Green,  and  he  was  a  minor.  It  was  no  marriage.  She  may 
be  alive — the  horrible  creature  who  entrapped  him — but  Cyril 
Trevanion  is  as  free  as  the  winds  ox  heaven.  Poor  fellow!" 
the  passionate  tears  starting  to  her  eyes,  "he  has  bitterly 
atoned  for  his  one  act  of  bojnsh  folly." 

The  widow  looked  at  her  askance — at  the  beautiful,-  flushed, 
impassioned  face — and  laughed  once  more;  but  this  time  the 
laugh  had  a  bitter,  metallic  ring. 

'^How  vehement  you  are!    Ah!  it  is  easy  to  foresee  what 


WHO  wiirs  f 


this  idolized  soldier's  visit  will  end  in.  And  being  in  London, 
he  will  come  down  here,  doubtless.  Dear  Miss  Trevanion, 
ahall  I  congratulate  you  beforeband?" 

Sybil  turned  upon  her  haughtily,  her  great  eyes  afire. 

**  You  will  kindly  keep  your  congratulations,  Mrs.  Ingram, 
until  they  are  called  for.  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  pictures? 
because,  if  so,  you  must  see  them  immediately.  At  this  hour 
1  have  very  little  time  to  spare." 

She  led  the  way,  her  head  thrown  back,  the  tall,  gracefu) 
:^gure  haughtily  erect,  the  step  imperious — '*  La  Princesse  '* 
to  the  core.  The  widow  followed,  a  singular  and  by  no  means 
pleasant  smile  on  her  fair  face. 

*'  I  should  like  to  lower  that  lofty  pride,  to  stoop  that 
haughty  head,  my  dainty  Lady  Sybil.  And  I  will,  too,  before 
I  have  done  with  you,  as  surely  as  my  name  is  not  Edith  In- 
gram I" 

They  went  down  the  long  picture-gallery,  the  early  morn- 
ing sunlight  streaming  redly  oti  ^.siil-shirt  and  corselet  of  cru- 
sader and  cavalier,  on  branching  antlers  and  brass  helmets, 
cavalry  swords  and  blue-bright  sabers  glittering  dangerously. 
Sybil  led  the  way,  with  a  look  on  her  handsome  face  strangely 
like  that  look  of  stern  decision  on  the  pictured  faces  of  the 
dead  and  gone  Trevanions  gazing  down  upon  them  from  the 
walls.  It  was  there  beneath  the  half-raised  visor  of  Guy  Tre- 
vanion,  who  fought  side  by  side  with  Eichard  the  Lion-Heart- 
ed;  now  half  hid,  yet  there  still,  amid  the  suave  smile  and 
waving  love-locks  of  another  Cyril — the  handsomest  cavalier 
in  the  gay  court  of  the  "  Merry  Monarch;"  now  under  the 
powdered  peruke  and  slashed  doublet  of  Jasper,  the  brightest 
star  in  the  court  of  Queen  Anne.  And  you  saw  it  again  m  the 
beautiful,  smiling  face  of  Rosalind  Trevanion,  in  her  starohed 
Elizabethan  ruffle  and  stitf  stomacher,  under  lace  and  farth- 
ingale; in  the  knight  with  his  bland  smile  and  deadly  rapier; 
in  the  lady  with  her  diamonds  and  stiff  brocades;  in  all  the 
faces  of  the  men  and  women  of  the  race. 

There  was  but  time  for  a  glance  at  all  these,  for  a  peep  intd 
the  great  banqueting-room,  large  and  lofty  as  a  church;  into 
the  tapestried  chambers;  into  the  long  refectcij,  where  the 
shadowy  monks  had  met  for  their  silent  meals;  into  the  old 
chapel,  with  its  holy- water  fonts,  its  idle  censers,  its  vacant 
choir,  its  dim  paintings  and  pale  statues  of  saints  and  angels; 
into  the  cells,  where  those  grim  ascetics  sought  their  GOwSort' 
less  couches. 

Then  Sybil  haaded  her  companion  a  key,  and  turned  to  d^ 
pvt 


60 


^HO    WINS? 


**  I  will  be  late  as  it  is,"  she  said,  "  and  General  Trevanion 
detests  being  kept  waiting;  but  you  can  go  over  the  house  at 
your  leisure,  and  let  yourself  out  without  the  trouble  of  get- 
ting through  the  window— unless,  indeed,"  smiling,  "  you  ieai 
the  prior's  ghost." 

**  I  don't  fear  the  prior's  ghost,"  the  widow  responded,  gay- 
ly,  "  but  I  do  a  reproach  from  my  lady.  If  yon  will  permit 
me,  dear  Sybil — there,  1  can  twt  be  formal — I  will  walk  back 
witii  you.  It  will  take  us  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half  to  reach 
Trevanion."  

Of  course  Sybil  assented,  not  best  pleased,  however.  She 
did  not  like  the  affectionate  widow,  with  her  very  familiar 
**  Sybil;"  but  she  was  mamma's  friend,  and,  as  such,  to  be 
treated.  She  was  SylDil's  guest,  too,  and  that  young  iady  had 
all  an  Arab's  idea  of  the  beauty  of  hospitality.  You  partook 
of  her  bread  and  salt,  and  lodged  in  her  tent,  and  though  you 
were  her  deadliest  enemy,  you  must  be  treated  courteously  and 
cordially  from  thenceforth. 

So,  through  the  golden  glory  of  the  cloudless  summer  morn- 
ing, the  two  ladies  Avalked  back  to  Trevanion  Park,  and  only 
separated  at  the  house — Mrs,  Ingram  hastening  to  meet  her 
patroness,  and  Sybil  to  minister  to  the  wants  of  the  sick 
seigneur. 

Deiphine  found  her  just  quitting  the  general's  apartments, 
and  delivered  ray  lady's  message.  Miss  Trevanion  hastened  at 
once  to  obey  the  maternal  behest. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  mamma?"  S_ybil  remarked,  as  she 
entered.  "  I  trust  1  see  you  quite  recovered  this  morning 
from  the  fatigue  of  yesterday's  journey." 

**  Thanks,  dear,"  Lady  Lemox  said,  rubbing  her  aquiline 
nose  pettishly.  *'  I  am  as  well,  I  dare  say,  as  1  ever  will  be 
in  this  world.  But  I  am  worried  nearly  to  death  ever  since 
that  absurd  boy  burst  in  upon  us  last  night  with  his  ridiculoas 
news." 

'*  Absurd  boy!  ridiculous  news  I"  her  daughter  repeated, 
snrprised.     "  I  don't  raiderstand,  mamma." 

*'  There,  Sybil,  doit't  pretend  to  be  obtuse.  Y^'ou  must  un- 
derstand. I  mean  Charles,  of  course,  coming  home  ui  a  gale, 
and  crying  out  that  Oyril  Trevanion  had  returned.  It  isn't 
possible,  you  know,  Sybil;  but  still,  the  bare  report  fidgeti 
me  almost  to  death." 

*' Indeed'  And  why,  pray?  Colonel  Trevanion  has  surely 
A  perfe*^  I  right  to  return  to  \m  native  land,  \i  he  chooses." 

"Yes,  very  likely;  only  I  should  think,  if  he  possessed  ona 
atom  of  spirit,  he  would  be  ashamed  to  show  his  face  in  tfas 


WHO  wnro  t 


ei 


country  where  he  so  signally  disgraced  himself^  and  where  hii 

scandalous  story  is  stilJ  so  well  known." 

"Ashamed  to  show  his  face!  Disgraced  himself  1*'  Syhil 
repeated,  her  spirited  eyes  beginning  to  sparkle  dangeromly. 
**  Are  not  your  terms  a  little  harsh,  Lady  Lemox?  You  are 
extremely  severe  on  the  boyish  folly  of  a  lad  of  nineteen — folly 
for  which.  Heaven  knows,  he  has  long  and  bitterly  atoned." 

"Oh,  of  course!'*  exclaimed  my  lady,  vehemently.  "I 
knew  how  it  would  be.  You  still  adhere  to  your  old*r61eof 
champion.  Boyisti  folly,  indeed!  We  all  know  the  life  he 
led  in  Paris  some  years  ago — the  drinking,  the  gambling,  the 
women,  the  wine — the  horrors  of  all  sorts.  No  right-minded 
young  lady  ought  to  think  of  him  without  a  blush.'" 

"  Poor  fellow!"  Sybil  said,  bitterly.  "  Every  one  throws 
a  stone  at  a  drowning  dog,  don't  they,  mamma?  Pray,  who 
has  been  prompting  your  part  this  morning?"  with  a  danger- 
ously flashing  glance  of  the  long  almond  eyes  toward  the  win- 
dow. '*  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  all  this  would  come-to  you 
of  itself,  mamma.  Mrs.  Ingram  is  your  confidante  and  ad- 
viser; but  surely  M.-s.  Ingram  can  have  no  possible  interest  in 
the  matter-  The  return  of  my  cousin  Cyril  can  be  nothing  to 
her,  one  way  of  the  other." 

"  Less  than  nothing,"  the  widow  said,  very  gently,  and  look- 
ing at  the  haughty  speaker  with  soft,  reproachful  eyes.  "  Dear 
Lady  Lemox,  permit  me  to  leave  the  room." 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Miss  Trevanion  exclaimed,  hastily, 
''I  am  sorry  if  I  have  judged  you  rashly."     Mrs.  Ingrain 
bowed  deepl3\     **  But  really,  mamma,  I  don't  see  your  drift. 
Did  you  send  for  me  merely  to  read  me  a  lecturer    If  so,  I 
have  not  deserved  it.     i  certainly  did  not  recall  the  wanderer 
from  South  America." 
**  But  you  are  very  glad  he  has  come,  all  the  same?" 
A  soft  flush  rose  to  Sybil's  delicate  cheeks,  a  gentler  light 
^one  in  the  lovely  eyes. 

**  Yes,'^  she  said,  almost  under  her  breath;  "  very,  very 
glad.  Poor  Cyril!  Ah!  mamma^  don't  be  hard  on  him.  HiB 
crime  was  not  great,  and  see  how  they  have  made  him  suffer. 
Think  of  all  the  long,  weary  years  of  homeless,  lonely  wandiN> 
ing  over  the  world. ' 

Her  voice  choked  euddenlj'.  She  turned  and  walked  away 
to  one  of  the  windows.  Yes,  it  was  clear  enough,  the  memory 
of  this  lonely  wanderer  was  inexpressibly  dear  to  Sybil  Tre» 
vanion.  For  the  past  ten  years  the  dream  of  her  life  had  be«i 
his  return — ^her  dear,  romantic,  idolized  Lara*  to  whom  ihit 


WHO   WI3fS? 

was  ready  to  play  "  Kaled,*'  the  adoring  page,  at  a  momtnt'i 

iiotice.  ^  .  ,  ^.    „ 

"What  nonsense!"  Lady  Lemox  cned,  energetically. 
"  Reallv,  Sybil,  you  are  ridiculouyly  sentimental.  Made  him 
suffer,  forsooth  I  A  great  deal  you  know  about  the  life  such 
men  as  he,  better  men  than  he,  lead.  Much  time  he  has  had 
for  suffering— fighting  Sepoys  and  Russians— playing  *  lion  ' 
among  the  chaumiere  belles  of  the  Quartier  Latin,  grisettee 
and  ballet-dancers,  such  as  his  wife  was—his  Kambling,  bis 
horse-racing,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  He  would  laugh  in  your 
face  if  he  heard  your  sentimental  rubbish." 

**  My  cousin  was  a  gentleman!"  Sybil  said,  cheeks  hot,  eyes 
flashing,  queenly  and  proud.  *'  He  would  never  laugh  at  me, 
mamuia.  Will  you  kindly  permit  me  to  go?  On  ihis  subject 
you  and  I  will  never  agree." 

**  You  may  go,  certainly — only  first  promise  me  not  to  fetch 
this  ruined  lion  of  the  fastest  Parisian  society  here.  You  are 
absurd  enough,  I  fancy,  even  for  that." 

"  Quite  absurd  enough,"  said  Sybil,  standing  very  erect* 
and  with  that  look  of  sternness  and  decision  characteristic  of 
the  **  stiff-neoked  Trevanions  "  more  marked  than  ever.  **  I 
will  fetch  him  here  most  surely,  mamma,  if  I  can,  and  yield 
every  sou  that  was  to  be  mine,  every  broad  acre,  to  their  right- 
ful lord.  This  very  day  I  will  beg  General  Trevanion  for 
justice  to  his  discarded  son — on  my  knees,  if  necessary.  I 
would  go  forth  a  beggar  to-morrow  to  sec  Cyril  Trevanion  re- 
instated in  his  rights!" 

Lady  Lemox  gave  one  gasp,  and  fell  back.     Words  were 

Eowerless  here,  and  her  feelings  were  too  many  for  her.     She 
ad  recourse  to  her  smelling-salts  and  her  pocket-handker- 
chief. 

**  And  I  will  succeed,  mamma,"  Miss  Trevanion  continued, 
moving  toward  the  door.  *'  His  father  loves  him  still.  It 
will  be  no  hard  task  to  persuade  him  to  do  simple  justice  to 
his  only  son.  I  am  sorry  if  I  grieve  you,  dear  mamma," 
more  gently;  "  but  right  is  right  the  wide  world  over.  Until 
we  meet  at  dinner,  au  revoir." 

^  She  glided  with  queenly  grace  from  the  apartment,  a  sub- 
limated look  on  her  face  that  made  it  actually  glorious.  As 
she  passed  down  the  long  corridor,  she  caught  sight  of  her 
brother  stretched  out  on  the  grass,  under  the  trees,  smoking— 
the  picture  of  indolent  content.  Two  minutes  later,  and  she 
swooped  down  upon  him — an  impetuous  young  whirlwind  in 
p0ttiooat8. 


WHO  wnrs? 


e» 


**  Charley,  Is  it  true — really,  really  true — that  Cyril  Tw* 
vanion  has  come  back?" 

**  Eh?'*  said  Charley,  lifting  his  head.  "  How  much? 
Make  that  remark  over  again,  my  beloved  sister,  and  please 
don't  be  so  energetic.  My  head  aches  this  morning — that*8 
the  worst  of  the  '  sparkling  cup  of  pleasure ' — the  lees  are 
bitter,  bitter.  The  port,  last  night,  was  thick  and  sweet;  but 
even  old  port  has  its  drawback,  in  an  unfortunate  tendtiicy  to 
concentrate  itself  in  a  man's  nose;  and  the  Cliquot  champagne 
was  heavenly— -there  is  no  other  word  for  it — but  sparkling 
Cliquot  is  only  bottled  headache  and  sour  stomach,  after  alL 

*'  '  Fill  the  bumper  fair; 

Every  drop  wo  sprinkle 
O'er  iho  brow  of  rare 
Smooths  away  a  wrinkle,' 

sounds  very  pretty;  but  the  wrinkles  came  next  day,  when 
remorse  and  soda  water  set  in.  Last  night  I  was  happy;  this 
morning  my  worst  enemies  (the  tailor  and  boot-maker^  could 
wish  me  no  more  wretched.  What  did  you  say,  Sybilr  The 
world  is  a  hollow  mockery,  and  life  hath  lost  its  charms,  but 
ni  try  to  answer  you — ere  1  die." 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Charley,  stop  that  nonsense!  I  asked 
you  if  it  were  true  that  Cyril  Trevanion  had  really  returned?" 

"  Hawksley  said  so,  at  least.  Met  him  in  London — seedy 
and  sad,  out  of  sorts,  and  out  of  pocket.  Here's  his  address 
— I  took  it  down  for  your  especial  benefit — so  you  can  fly  to 
him  on  the  wings  of  love  as  fast  as  you  please." 

He  tore  a  leaf  out  of  his  note-book  and  handed  it  to  her. 
Sybil  took  it;  then,  without  a  word,  turned  and  hurried  into 
the  house.  Charley  looked  after  her,  with  a  sigh  of  gentle  re- 
proach. 

"  Gratitude,  thy  name  is  woman!  Not  one  word  of  thankSj 
not  one  expression  of  condolence  for  my  unhappy  state. 
* 'Twas  ever  thus  from  childhood's  hour.'  Perhaps  I  had 
better  go  to  sleep." 

Charley  sunk  into  balmy  slumber  accordinffly,  until  the 
June  sun  reached  the  meridian,  and  beat  strongly  down  upon 
him.  He  awoke  in  a  state  a  salamander  might  have  envied, 
got  up,  yawned,  stretched  himself,  and  sauntered  into  the 
house. 

As  he  passed  into  the  entrance  hall,  his  sister  came  flying 
down  the  stairs,  her  face  flushed,  her  eyes  sparkling,  a  foldea 
latter  in  her  hand.  With  an  impetuous  outburst  she  flung 
her  arms  around  Charley  and  kissed  him  on  the  spot. 

"  I  hft?e  succeeded!"  she  exclai  ned.  **  Oh,  Cluuiej^  I  Imt^ 


u 


WHO   WIK8? 


iron  the  victory.  The  general  has  relented.  I  hare  written 
to  Cyril  to  come  home.  All  is  forgotten  and  forgiven.  See, 
here  is  the  letter!" 

She  dropped  it  into  the  post-bag;  then  flew  back  again 
upstairs,  leaving  Charley  standing  petrified. 

"  Ahd  they  call  women  responsible  beings,"  the  Etonian 
murmured,  vaguely.  **  Good  gracious!  there's  a  victory  tc 
win — a  victory  that  has  cost  the  conqueresa  her  kingdom." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  MYSTERY  AT  MONKSWOOD. 

**  Go  back  to  Monkswood!    For  pity's  sake,  Sybil,  do  I  hear 

yon  aright?"  . 

Miss  Trevanion  laughed  at  her  mother's  horrified  face. 

**  You  certainly  do,  mamma.  The  general  wishes  to  return 
to  Monkswood,  and  the  general's  wishes  are  to  me  like  the 
Moi  le  Roi  >f  King  Louis.  He  wishes  to  go  back,  and  very 
natural  inucecl  the  .vish  is,  under  the  circumstances." 

"An  invalid's  sick  fancy,"  murmured,  sympathetically, 
Mrs.  Ingram.  *'  Of  course  it  must  bo  indulged.  But  is  the 
poor  old  man  in  a  fitting  state,  deartot  Sybil?  The  damp— 
th(  rats — the  rook-infested  chimneys — the — " 

**  'Ve  will  see  to  all  that.  Charley  has  gone  to  Mr.  Eeed- 
worth,  the  land  steward,  to  issue  Uncle  Trevanion's  orders. 
The  place  will  be  in  fitting  order  to  receive  us  in  a  fortnight  at 
most. " 

**I'll  never  go!"  Lady  Lemox  exclaimed,  indignantly. 
"  I  am  very  comfortable  here.  I  like  a  modern  villa,  such  as 
this,  infinitely  better,  any  day,  than  a  ruined  old  pile  like  that. 
It  is  the  home,  the  birthplace  of  all  the  Trevanions,  it  is  true; 
but  still —  There,  Sybil,  I  shall  not  go,  so  don't  look  at  me 
BO  imploringly.  I  should  expect  to  see  the  prior's  ghost  every 
moonlight  night  under  the  trees,  and  hear  the  goblin  bell  in 
every  souch  of  the  wind  in  ths  turrets.  I  shall  stav  where  I 
am— that  8  decided.     And  you  shall  stay  too,  Edith.** 

"  Very  well,  mamma,"*  Sybil  said,  quite  resignedly;  "it 
must  be  as  you  please.  We  will  do  tolerably  well,  I  dare  say, 
with  Mrs.  Telfer,  the  housekeeper,  Roberts,  the  butler,  and  a 
lew  more.  You  and  Mrs.  Ingram  will  be  visitors  of  stat9> 
when  you  condescend  to  come  over  and  look  in  upon  w3." 

**  And  when  is  this  precious  will  to  bo  made?'*  inquired  her 
ladyship,  testily.  "Oh,  Heaven  help  you,  Svhijf  Lemoatl 
What  a  little  fool  you  arel" 


WHO  ynmf 


tt 


**  Thank  you,  my  lady/*  with  a  merry  little  lauffh,  and  a 
bonse-maid's  little  courtesy.  "  The  will  is  to  be  made  as  soon 
as  we  are  safely  settled  at  the  Priory.  Colonel  Trevanion,  in 
all  likelihood,  will  be  here  himself  long  before  that." 

The  rosy  radiance  that  always  lighted  her  face  at  the  baw 
mention  of  her  hero  dawned  softly  there  again,  and  the  disin 
herited  heiress  left  the  room  singing  a  gay  chanson.     Mrs. 
Ingram  looked  after  her,  with  a  careless  laugh,  but  with  a  'ook 
oi  bitter  hatred  and  envy  in  her  glittering  eyes. 

**  How  nice  it  must  be  to  feel  young  and  sentimental,  and 
quixotic  like  that.  J  havp  seen  so  much  of  life,  partly  in  mv 
husband's  life-time,  partly  since,  that  at  times  I  feel  as  though 
I  were  a  hundred.  But  if  your  daughter  had  been  born  a 
kitchen-maid,  her  sweet  simplicity  could  not  be  more  refred\- 

ing." 

It  was  very  seldom  indeed  the  piquante  widow  alluded  to 
the  late  lamented  Mr.  Ingram.  He  had  been  a  merchant  cap 
tain,  it  appeared,  and  his  devoted  wife  had  gone  with  him 
pretty  well  over  the  world. 

She  had  tried  Baden  Baden  and  Homburg,  and  all  tL^ 
charming  little  Bads  of  Germany,  on  her  own  responsibility 
since,  playing  ecarte,  vhigt-et-un,  etc.,  like  «,uy  old  soldier  of 
fortune;  but  this  was  sub  rosd. 

,  It  had  been  rather  a  vagabondish  life,  she  frankly  admitted, 
with  a  strong  flavor  of  bohemianism,  and  she  had  resigned  it 
and  her  liberty  to  dance  attendance  upon  the  Duchess  of 
Strathbane — a  vicious  old  Scotch  woman. 

Since  the  death  of  that  patroness  and  her  espousal  by  "  dear, 
dear  Lady  Lemox,"  she  had  gone  upon  velvet,  her  rose  leaves 
had  been  without  a  thorn  or  a  wrinkle,  and  life  was  one  long 
dream  of  bliss.  So  at  least  she  said,  and  my  lady  very  com- 
placently believed  it. 

The  refitting  up  of  the  Priory  went  rapidly  on.  The  seigneur 
had  all  the  impatience  of  a  petted  invalid,  and  the  fierce  old 
oenturion  used  to  play  despot  over  his  brigade. 

Sybil  walked  or  rode  over  every  day  to  superintend  in  per- 
son; and  under  the  trees,  grand  and  majestic  in  the  leafy 
splendor  of  early  July,  the  wrinkled  crone,  Hester,  sat,  watch- 
ing the  heiress  with  malignant  old  eyes.  Sybil  heeded  littlo 
those  weird,  baleful  glances.  With  the  princely  spirit  nature 
and  custom  had  given  her,  she  never  parsed  the  witch-like 
figure  without  carelessly  flinging  her  a  handful  of  shillingc. 
And  old  Hester  gathered  them  up  ava'iGioaslj,  and  oroonsd 
■till  her  ominous  doggerel: 
•  ^. 


■t.,-1 


^  WHO    WIKST  ^^ 

••  The  Doom  shall  fnll  on  Monkswood  H&C, 

Onr  Lntly  send  lier  grnco: 
DfliU  fulls  the  Doom  upon  the  lait 
Full-  auugliter  of  llie  racel 

*•  The  h.it  ulinll  flit,  tlie  owl  Bliall  boot, 
Grim  Ruin  stalks  with  hnsto; 
Tlie  D(  om  slmll  full  when  Mnnkswnod  Ball 
li  changed  to  M(juksvvood  Waste!" 

And  Sybil,  fearless,  like  a  true  Trevanion,  listened  «nd 
laughed,  and  swept  along,  princess-like,  to  issue  her  sovereign 
behests,  and  rule  liege  lady  of  all  around  her. 

Before  the  fortnight  had  expired  the  preparations  came  to 
an  end,  and  General  Trcvuniou  and  his  ward,  and  a  staff  of 
servants,  left  the  Park  for  the  Priory.  And  Cyril  Trevanion, 
contrary  to  all  expectation,  had  iiot  yet  appeared  to  claim  his 
own,  to  take  his  old,  his  rightful  place  in  his  father's  house 
and  home. 

There  had  come  a  letter—a  letter  which  had  given  impetu- 
ous Sybil  a  chill,  so  brief,  so  cold,  so  formal  was  it — saying 
they  might  look  for  him  shortly,  that  business  of  a  pressing 
nature  detained  him  in  London. 

The  old  general  road  it  through  .his  gold-rimmed  eyeglass, 
propped  up  in  a  driit  of  pillows,  with  sad,  wistful  eyes. 

*'  ft  does  not  sound  like  Cyril,"  he  said — *'  like  my  brave, 
impulsive,  warm-hearted  boy,  ever  ready  to  forgive  and  forget 
at  the  first  pleading  word.  The  very  writing  is  changed.  Ah, 
well!  he  was  nineteen  flicn,  ho  is  thirty-eight  now;  and  time 
changes  us  all,  and  rarely  for  the  better.  Ho  will  come, 
Sybil;  and  that  is  something.  I  will  see  him  again  before  I 
die." 

There  was  one  room  at  the  Priory — the  "  Adam  and  Eve 
Chamber,"  they  called  it — where  many  Trevanions  had  been 
born  and  slept  away  their  wedded  lives,  and  this  apartment 
the  general  had  particularly  desired  to  be  got  in  readiness  for 
him.  It  was  a  vast  and  lofty  and  spacious  room,  with  a  great 
oak  door,  a  slippery  oaken  floor  and  wainscot,  a  yawning  gulf 
of  a  fire-place,  where  a  wood-fire  blazed  now  night  and  day, 
despite  the  sultry  July  weather;  for  these  great  rooms  were  al- 
ways draughty,  and  the  invalid  ever  chill. 

On  either'side  of  the  great  stone  chimney-piece,  wonderfully 
oarvfed  with  scrolls  and  legends,  were  two  life-length  ficures  of 
the  "  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife,"  wrought  witn  mar- 
veious  skill  in  the  shining  oak.  And  all  the  walls  were  cuS 
and  oarved  with  repr«sentatioB&of  four-footed  thidgs—ot  3ihM 


WHO  wnrsf  H 

thftt  Bwim  and  birds  that  fly — passing  in  review  before  their 
earthly  king  to  be  named. 

Peep  in  their  mullioned  casements  were  set  ^he  d!mi  dia* 
mond-paned  windows,  half  blind  with  climbing  ivy  and  wild 
poses.  The  furniture  was  quaint,  and  old,  and  epindle-lcggcd, 
and  in  the  center  of  the  floor  stood  the  bed — a  huge  four- 
poster,  that  centuries  ago  had  come  from  Belgium,  and  in 
which  ladies  of  the  blood  royal  had  slumbered  before  now. 
^  Mrs.  Ingram,  going  over  this  chamber  with  Sybil,  fell  into 
raptures. 

**How  charming!  how  beautiful!  how  quainti  Such  a 
marvel  of  ancient  art!  Such  a  dear,  romantic  old  room! 
Eeally  now,  if  there  were  sliding  panels  in  the  Priory,  one 
would  look  for  the  secret  springs  somewhere  amid  all  this  fan- 
tastic work — wouldn't  they,  Sv-bil,  dearest?  And  this  was  the 
monastic  end  of  the  Priory,  too,  where  all  such  delightfully 
mysterious  places  were  most  likely  to  be  found." 

General  Trevanion,  lying  back  in  a  great  sleepy-hollow  of 
an  arm-chair,  darted  a  keen,  angry,  surprised  look  at  the 
widow  as  she  said  this.  But  the  pretty,  smiling  face,  all 
sweetness  and  dimples,  looked  innocent  and  unconscious  as  a 
babe's,  new-born. 

**  Call  Clean  ce,  Sybil,"  he  said,  sharply.  **  I  am  cold  and 
tired.     I  want  to  go  to  bed." 

Miss  Trevanion  rang  for  the  valet,  and  left  the  room;  bui 
the  next  time  she  was  alone  with  him  the  general  turned  upon 
her  sharply. 

**  Sybil,  tvho  is  that  eve;  smiling,  honey-tongued  woman 
your  mother  has  picked  up?  Who  is  she,  and  where  does  she 
come  from?  And  where  is  that  fellow  Ingram,  or  was  there 
ever  such  a  fellow  at  ail?" 

**  Dear  uncle,"  Sybil  eaid,  smiling,  yet  a  trifie  shocked, 
*  yoa  know  quite  as  much  about  her  as  J  do.  She  is  mam- 
ma's especial  pet  and  friend,  and,"  with  a  light  laugh,  "  the 
aolace  of  her  declining  years.  *  That  fellow  Ingram '  was  a 
merchant  captain — deaxl  years  ago — peace  to  his  ashes.  Fur- 
ther than  that,  I  know,  and  seek  to  know,  no  more." 

"  Keep  her  out  of  this  room,"  said  the  general,  tharply. 
'*  I  don't  like  her,  and  I  won't  have  her  here.  She  is  like 
sugar-candy,  Sybil — too  sweet  to  be  wholesome.  If  yen  told 
her  black  was  white,  she  would  simper  and  say,  '  Yes,  dear;  I 
know  it,'  "  mimicking  the  widow^s  dulcet  tones.  "  I  like 
people  like  you,  Sybil,  who  stand  up  stoutly,  and  tell  me, 
1^0,  it  IB  notr  Don't  let  he^  come  here  again;  I  don't  Iik« 
hir." 


WHO  wnrsf 


Sybil  promised  dut'fully,  of  course;  "but  the  best-laid 
plans  of  mice  and  men  gang  aft  aglee." 

Tho  widow  was  destined  to  come  again,  and  yet  again,  and 
to  deepen  the  dark  mystery  so  soon  to  electrify  them  all. 

Whether  in  the  removal  he  had  caught  cold,  whether  the 
"Adam  and  Eve  "room  was  still  unaired,  whether  secret 
trouble  over  tJie  prolonged  absence  of  his  son  Cyril  had  done 
it,  no  one  knew;  but  the  general  fell  suddenly  and  dangerously 
ill.  Inflammation  set  in;  a  great  physician  from  London  was 
summoned;  a  telegram  dispatched  to  the  tardy  heir,  and  all 
was  dismay  and  confusion  at  Monkswood  Waste. 

A  lawyer  Avas  sumnioned,  and  the  will  that  left  all — every 
stiver — to  Cyril  Treviiiion,  was  made.  Sybil  insisted  upon 
this.     It  was  all  Cyril's,  by  right,  luid  to  Cyril  it  should  go. 

"  He  doesn't  deserve  it/Sybil,"  Cyril's  father  said,  bitterly. 
"  See  how  he  lingers,  while  they  count  my  life  by  hours. 
But  he  will  come,  and  you,  my  darling,  will  be  his  wife;  so  it 
will  end  in  the  same,  after  all.'' 

The  great  London  doctor  shook  his  head  portentously,  and 
looked  very  grave.  He  mifjht  last  a  week;  but  tho  stormy  old 
lion's  life  was  very  near  its  ending  now. 

They  never  left  h^m.  S3bil,  m  sorrow,  pale  and  tearless, 
watched  by  his  bedside  night  and  day.  He  was  delirious  very 
often,  almost  always  at  night.  He  was  not  to  be  left  for  an 
instant  alone. 

"  You  will  wear  yourself  out,  dearest  Sybil,"  Mrs.  Ingram 
said,  mournfully,  kissing  the  girl's  pale  cheek.  *^  You  must 
not — you  really  must  not — sit  up  so  much  as  you  do.  Let  me 
take  your  place  to-night." 

"  Thanks,"  Sybil  said,  wearily.  "  It  will  not  be  necessary. 
Mrs.  Telfer  watches,  with  Clcante." 

**  Then  I  will  assist  Mrs.  Telfer  and  Cleante.  Ah!  dearest 
Miss  Tre^'anion,  you  are  very  crue!.  You  will  not  let  me  be 
of  the  slightest  use,  and  I  lon^  so  much  to  do  something.  Let 
me  sit  up  this  once — pray  do. 

Sho  clasped  her  little  hands,  and  looked  piteously  up  at 
Sybil,  great  toars  standing  in  the  velvet-black  eyes — a  picture 
of  pretiiness  and  innocence.  And  Sybil's  heart  relented.  The 
general  disliked  her;  but  the  poor  P^eripra-i  was  far  bevond  the 
power  oi:  liking  or  disliking  any  one  now. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  Miss  Tievanion  made  answer.  **  Sit 
up,  if  you  will,  Mrs.  Ingram.  Good  Mrs.  Telfer  is  fat  and 
fifty,  and  extremely  apt  to  fall  asleep  before  midnight;  and 
Clfli^tei,  who  has  no  more  brains  than  a  cat^  ii  very like]jr  to 


WHO  wnrsf 


follow  her  example.    But  you  are  not  like  them,  and  I  ^hall 
rest  the  quieter  lor  knowing  you  are  beside  him." 

**  A  thousand  thanks,  dearest,  sweetest  Sybil!"  cried  the 
ffushing  widow,  kissing  her  impetuously.  "  I  had  begun  to 
fear  of  late  I  had  offended  you.  You  have  grown  so  sadly 
cold  and  formal.  But  now  I  know  you  will  trust  your  poor 
Edith,  who  would  die  to  servo  you,  darling  Sybil." 

Sybil's  superb  upper  lip  curled  a  little.  She  did  not  like 
all  tills  effusion,  and  never  distrusted  the  widow  half  so  much 
as  in  her  gushing  moods.  But  she  had  promised.  There  was 
really  no  reason  why  Mrs.  Ingram  should  not  assist  the  house- 
keeper and  valet  in  their  watch,  since  the  general,  in  his  de- 
lirium, knew  no  longer  friend  from  foe. 

Very  sleepy,  and  unutterably  fatigued  in  mind  and  body, 
Sybil  retired  early  on  that  eventful,  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
night. 

Charley  had  driven  the  widow  over  in  the  gray  of  the  sum- 
mer evening,  and  returned  to  the  park.  Cleante  was  to  occu- 
py the  dres;sing-room  adjoining  the  "  Adam  and  Eve,"  and 
Mrs.  Telfter  and  the  little  widow  enscorsced  themselves  in  the 
easy-chairs,  trimmed  tiie  night-lamp,  and  began  tJieir  vigil. 

Sybil  retired  to  her  chamber,  half  undressed,  and  threw  her- 
self upon  the  bed.  Almost  instantaneously  she  fell  asleep, 
and  slept  for  three  hours,  decp]}^  dreamlessly.  Then,  without 
noise,  or  caus'^.  of  any  kind,  precisely  at  midnight,  she  sud- 
denly and  fully  awoke. 

A  bell  was  tolling,  solemn,  slow,  faint,  afar  off,  but  unmis- 
takably tolling.  TliroLigli  the  deep  stillness  of  the  warm  July 
night  the  low,  steady  tone  fell — one — two — three — a  longer 
and  longer  pause  between  each  vibration — a  bell,  the  deepest, 
the  sweetest,  the  saddest,  that  ever  Sybil  Trevanion  had  heard. 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  listening.  Morally  and  physically  the  girl 
was  brave;  but  now  the  cold  drops  started  on  her  brow,  and 
her  heart  stood  still.  And  slowly,  slowly  clanged  that  passing 
bell,  fainter  every  moment,  and  further  off. 

She  sprung  up,  drew  the  curtain,  and  looked  out  into  the 
night.  The  untold  glory  of  the  full  July  moon  flooded  the 
chamber  with  heavenly  luster.  Countless  stars  sparkled;  the 
soft,  abundant  radiance  seemed  clear  as  the  light  of  day.  The 
dark  woodland,  the  deep  plantations,  tangled  and  wild,  the 
waving  groves  of  fern,  looked  mysteriously  beautiful  in  thafc 
silvery  splendor;  but  no  living  thing,  far  or  near,  was  to  be 
seen.  The  slipping  of  a  snake,  the  light  crash  of  a  dry  twig, 
the  feont  twitter  of  a  bird  in  its  nest,  all  these  sounds  of  silence 


70 


WHO  wnwf 


came  to  her  ear;  and  still,  above  them,  still  clear,  atfll  mourn- 
ful and  slow,  sounded  that  weird  passing  bell.  ^ 

Sybil's  dressing-gown  lay  near.  She  threw  it  on,  thrust  her 
feet  into  slippers,  hastened  from  the  chamber  straight  to  that 
of  the  general.  She  had  to  pass  through  the  dressing-room  on 
her  way;  the  Frenchman,  Cieante,  lay  soundly  asleep  on  a 
couch.  Another  second,  and  she  stood  on  the  threBhold  oi 
the  sick-room. 

There  she  paused. 

What  was  Mrs.  Ingram  doing?  The  sick  man  lay  yery 
still,  and  the  widow  was  bending  over  him,  her  white  h%nd8 
busy  among  the  pillows.  Under  those  pillows,  tho  new  will, 
the  will  that  left  all  to  Cyril,  lay.  It  had  been  the  sick  man's 
whim  to  keep  it  there,  and  no  one  had  gainsaid  him.  But 
could  Mrs.  Ingram  be  s&eking  for  that  ? 

While  she  stood,  breathless,  the  old  man,  with  a  sudden 
shrill  cr3%  started  up  in  bed,  and  seized  the  widow  by  the  wrist. 

"  She  will  murder  me!"  he  cried.  **  I  dreamed  the  knife 
was  at  my  throat.     Take  her  away,  Sybil— take  her  away!'* 

The  momentary  strength  left  him  even  while  he  spoke.  He 
fell  heavily  back  among  the  pillows,  his  eyes  closing  in  dull 
stupor  once  more. 

As  if  some  prescience  warned  her  she  was  watched,  Mrs. 
Ingram  turned  round.  Awfully  corpse-like  the  fair  face 
looked  in  the  pallid  glimmer  of  the  night-lamp. 

*•  Miss  Trevanion,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  herel  I  thought 
you  were  soundly  asleep." 

Sybil  advance(3,  very  pale. 

**  What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Ingram?  What  were  you  look- 
fajg  for  a  moment  ago,  when  the  general  started  up?" 

**  Looking  for,  dearest  Sybil?  1  was  not  looking  for  any- 
thing. I  was  trying  to  arrange  the  pillows  more  comfortably, 
when  I  unfortunately  disturbed  our  poor  patient.  He  has 
been  sleeping  heavily  since  you  left,  but  wandering  and  talk- 
ing at  intervals.  It  is  fortunate  you  did  not  resign  him  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  Cieante  and  Mrs.  Telfer.  They  have  boUi 
been  soundly  sleeping  all  night." 

Sybil  danced  at  the  housekeeper. 

Yes,  sue  was  soundly  sleeping,  and  snoring  at  that.  Her 
conscience  gave  her  d  twinge  for  the  unjust  suspicion.  How 
uncharitable  she  was  to  think  evil  so  readily  of  this  good»nat» 
ured  little  woman. 

*'  Did  you  hear  a  bell  toll?"  she  asked,  half  afihamed  of  iha 
question. 

"AbeU?    No,  dear.    Did  you?*' 


WHO    WINS? 


n 


*'  I  fancied  so.  It  was  only  fancy,  thongh,  I  dare  say. 
Now  that  I  am  here,  however,  I  will  share  your  watch  uatil 
morning." 

"  Dearest  Sybil,  no,"  the  widow  said,  earnestly.  **  Why 
should  you?  You  need  rest  so  much,  my  poor,  pale  darling, 
Bud  you  see  our  patient  sleeps  quietly.  You  will  wear  your- 
self out.  You  know  you  are  not  strong,  ?ior  used  to  watchiugj 
and  if  you  are  taken  ill,  what  will  the  poor  old  general  do 
vhen?  No,  my  pet;  go  back  to  bed  and  sleep  in  peace.  1 
^.11  care  for  our  patient  fully  as  well  as  yourself." 

»3ybil  hesitated. 

She  felt  wearied  and  worn  and  unrefreshed  still;  the  temp- 
tation to  rest  was  very  strong;  and  then,  as  Mrs.  Ingram  said, 
ihe  was  (][uite  capable  of  doing  all  that  was  needed  to  be  done. 
It  was  wicked  to  suspect  any  one  of  ill  design  without  cause; 
she  would  not  yield  to  these  unkind  suspicions;  she  would 
obey  Mrs.  Ingram,  and  go  back  to  bed. 

*'  I  am  very  absurd,  1  suppose,"  she  said,  "  and  full  of  ri- 
diculous fancies.  I  will  return  to  my  room,  Mrs.  Ingram,  and 
try  to  sleep  until  morning." 

The  widow  looked  after  the  slender,  graceful,  girlish  figure, 
floating  out  of  the  room  in  its  white  drapery,  with  glittering 
black  eyes. 

**  If  you  were  not  such  a  little  fool,  S3'bil  Lemox,"  she  said, 
between  her  little  white  teeth,  *'  you  would  thank  me  for  serv- 
ing you  against  your  will.  I  hate  Cyiil  Trevauion,  and  he 
shall  never  inherit  the  broad  acres  and  full  coffers  of  his  fa- 
ther, if  /  can  prevent  it.  And  those  white  arms  of  yours  shall 
never  wreathe  about  him,  my  pretty  princess,  if  1  can  hold  yoa 
apart." 

The  mystic  bell  had  ceased  to  toll  when  Sybil  returned  to 
her  room'.  All  was  still;  the  indistinct  noises  of  the  night 
came  faintly  to  her  ear;  soft  and  low  came  the  distant  wash  of 
the  waves  on  the  shore — nothing  else.  * 

And  Sybil  slept  until  morning.  The  sunburst  of  another 
cloudless  summer  day  filled  the  world  when  she  woke,  sprung 
up,  dressed  hastily,  and  hurried  to  the  sick  man's  room. 

It  was  still  very  early — scarcely  six — the  night-lamp  yet 
burned,  and  Cleante  and  Mrs.  Telfor  and  Mrs.  Ingram,  all 
three  were  afleep. 

But  Sybil  never  glanced  at  them  twice;  for,  standing  on  the 
threshold,  a  great  cry  of  horror  and  fear  burst  from  her.  The 
bed  was  empty,  the  sick  man  gone! 

That  shrill  cry  awoke  the  valet.  He  yawned,  turned, 
itrefcched  himself,  and  sleepily  got  up,  rubbing  his  ejrea.    U 


79 


WHO  wursf 


also  startled  Mrs.  Telfer,  v^ho  sat  erect  with  a  Jerlc,  gazing  bo. 
wildered  about  her  with  dazed  and  stupid  eyes.  But  the  little 
widow  slumbered  so  soundly  tbat  she  never  stirred. 

'*Miss  Svbil!"  gasped  the  housekeeper,  "  what  on  earth'i 
;he  matter.'*    The  g(3neial— " 

She  stopped  short,  gazing  bewildered  at  the  empty  bed. 

**  Where  is  my  uncle?  Where  is  General  Trevanion?"  Sybljl 
oried.     "  'A^ake  up,  Mrs.  Ingram,  and  tell  me  where  he  isl" 

She  shook  the  widow  vehemently.  The  great,  velvet-blacV 
•yes  opened  and  looked  drowsily  up. 

**  You,  Sybil,  love?    Have  I  been  asleep?    Really;  I  hai 

no  idea—" 

"  Where  is  the  general?"  Sybil  exclaimed,  wildly.  "  What 
have  you  done  with  him,  Mrs.  Ingram?" 

**  /done  with  him?    My  dearest  Miss  Trevanion — *' 

And  there  she,  too,  came  to  a  dead-lock,  with  a  gasp  or  con- 
Btemation,  at  sight  of  the  vacant  bed. 

**  Good  heavens!  what  can  have  happened?  The  last  I  re- 
mem  oer  is  giving  him  a  drink  and  resuming  my  seat.  I  felt 
very  drowsy,  and  dropped  asleep  without  knowing  it.  I  never 
wok 3  since.'  And  the  general—  Oh,  Sybil,  Sybil!  what  can 
havt  happened?" 

She  clapped  her  hands,  and  looked  up  in  pa'o  affright  i\i  the 
item,  beautiful  face,  colorless  as  marble.  The  clear,  strong 
violet  eyes  met  full  the  tearful  black  ones  with  a  long,  power- 
ful gaze.  And  the  black  eyes  drooped  and  fell,  and  the  widow 
covered  her  face  with  both  slender  hands,  sobbing. 

*'  You  will  never  forgive  me  for  falling  asleep.  I  know  it; 
I  deserve  it  I  But  oh,  dearest,  dearest  Sybil,  indeed — I  could 
not  help  iti" 

**  Alarm  the  house.  Clean te,"  Sybil  said,  turning  away,  her 
voice  ringing  in  its  high  command.  '*  Search  every  nook  and 
comer.  You  will  accompany  me,  Mrs.  Telfer.  He  must 
have  risen  in  his  sleep  and  wandered  somewhere.  We  will  find 
him  dead,  in  all  likelihood,  in  one  of  the  vacant  rooms." 

She  had  loved  the  stern  old  man  very  dearly;  but  she  shed 
no  tear  now.  It  was  the  hour  for  action,  not  for  weeping; 
«nd  Mrs.  Ingram's  sobs  were  the  only  ones  in  the  room. 

Sybil's  first  act  was  to  lift  the  pillows  and  look  for  the  will, 
it  was  gone!  She  glanced  at  the  weeping  widow  with  a  cyn» 
ical  eye,  and  led  the  way  from  the  sick-room. 

The  search  began.  Thoy  hunted  everywhere;  all  in  vain. 
Through  every  corner  of  the  deserted  old  house,  from  cellar 
to  garret,  they  looked;  but  not  th?  slightest  trace  of  the  niis»> 
Qg  invalid. 


WHO    WUSfB? 


7t 


As  mysteriously  as  though  the  earth  had  opened  and  swal- 
lowed him  up.  General  Trevauion  had  vanished. 

Charley  was  sent  for;  the  authorities  of  Speckhavea  war* 
aroused;  a  thorough  and  vigilant  search  began. 

All  in  vain.  Through  house  and  grounds— through  erery 
nook  and  comer — no  trace  of  the  missing  man.  Ponds  and 
pools  were  dragged,  and  many  things  were  brought  up,  bufc 
not  the  dead  body  of  General  Trevanion. 

They  spent  a  week  in  the  fruitless  sear  h.  The  whole 
county  was  up  in  wonder  and  horror  at  the  astounding  myi- 
tery.  And  most  vigilant  among  those  tireless  seekers  was  IWCri. 
Ingram,  ever  pallid  and  tearful,  full  of  remorse  for  that  dread- 
ful slumbei  into  which  she  had  been  beguiled,  and  so  anxious 
to  make  her  peace  once  more  with  "  dearest  Sybil." 

But  Miss  Trevanion  turned  away  wiih  a  face  like  stone,  an 
unutterably  bitter  heart,  and  rigidly  compressed  lips.  Since 
that  fatal  morning  she  had  never  spoken  one  word  to  the  wom- 
an, who,  in  her  secret  soul,  she  felt  convinced,  in  some  myste- 
rious  and  unheard-of  way,  had  spirited  off,  bodily,  the  old  gen- 
eral and  the  will. 

And  to  deepen  the  dark  mystery  of  Monkswood,  though  a 
second  telegram  had  been  sent  him,  Cyril  Trevanion  came  not. 


<< 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  CHIEF  OF  LAKA  IS  RETURNED  AGAIN. 


» 


Seven  miles  away,  where  the  waves  of  the  ceaseless  sea 
washed  the  shingly  shore,  under  the  broiling  sea-side  sun,  there 
nestled  the  little  fishing-village  of  Chudleigh.  And  high  up 
on  the  coast  stood  the  great  house,  with  its  grand  old  park, 
Chudleigh  Chase.  They  were  one  of  the  oldest  county  fam- 
ilies, the  Chudleighs — and  the  present  baronet  and  General 
'Trevanion  had  been  close  friends,  as  well  as  neighbors,  when 
both  were  at  home,  which  was  not  often.  And  among  all  who 
were  shocked — nay,  stunned,  by  the  incomprehensible  mystery 
at  Monkswood,  none  felt  it  half  as  profoundly  as  Sir  Buperi 
Chudleigh. 

Three  weeks  had  passed  away,  and  the  search  was  about 

given  over  in  des2)air.  Not  the  faintest  clew  to  guide  them 
ad  been  found.  The  most  artful  detectives  from  Scotland 
Yard  had  been  summoned,  and  these  profound  guessers  of  an- 
guessable  riddles  set  their  brains  at  work  to  no  purpose.  And 
at  last  they  were  fain  to  give  it  over,  and  trust  to  time  to  L'ft 
iJie  daxk  mystery  shrouding  the  fate  of  the  poor  old  genaraL 


n 


WHO  wmsf 


fe 


Sir  Rupert  Chudleigh  paced  slowly  up  and  doT^ii  the  '•  sum- 
mer drawing-room  "-—an  exquisite  apartment,  all  silver  and 
azure— a  carpet  like  drifted  snow  and  rosebuds—and  pictures, 
each  a  gem.  Flowers  bloomed  luxuriously  in  the  wide  win» 
dows,  and  birds  sung  amid  the  flowers;  for  Sir  Eupert  was  an 
epicure  of  the  eye,  as  well  as  of  the  palate,  and  wanted  all 
things  pretty  &,nd  sweet  about  him. 

The  August  sun  was  flinging  red  lances  of  fire  amid  the 
rown  boh^s  of  the  giant  trees,  on  its  westward  way;  but  the 
'baronet  still  wore  a  picturesque  dressing-gown  of  violet  velvet, 
that  clung  about  him  not  unlike  a  Roman  toga.  Having  noth- 
ing earthly  to  do,  and  nothing  earthly  or  heavenly  to  ihink  of, 
he  was  a  victim  to  that  terrible  complaint  which  the  French 
call  la  maladie  sans  malade — the  *'  disease  without  a  disease  '* 
—and  fancied  himself  at  death's  door  or  therea'uouts,  a  fragile 
blossom,  ready  to  bo  nipped  by  the  first  chill  gale.  He  had 
been  pretty  well  over  every  nook  in  the  Continent,  and  now, 
in  his  fifty-eighth  year,  had  returned  to  Chudleigh  for  good. 
He  had  married  very  late  in  life,  to  retrieve  his  ruined  fortunes 
— squandered  at  the  gaming-table — an  heiress,  rich  as  a  female 
Rothschild  and  ugly  as  a  Hottentot,  who  had  just  lived  long 
enough  to  present  him  with  one  daughter  and  depart  in 
peace.  Sir  Rupert  had  buried  her  in  the  family  vault,  with 
profoundest  resignation,  gone  into  mourning,  sent  the  infant 
away  to  a  widowed  aunt  iji  Berkshire,  and  thanked  his  lucky 
stars  that  had  given  him  a  second  fortune  and  rid  him  of  an 
unlovely  wife.  He  did  not  quite  forget  the  little  waif  left  be- 
hind; he  desired  the  should  be  named  Gwendoline,  after  his 
mother — sent  quarterly  checks  to  the  widowed  aunt,  and  re- 
quested that  the  best  tutors  should  be  had  for  her  as  she  grew 
up. 

For  sixteen  years  he  remained  abroad;  then,  wearied  nearly 
,  to  death  of  himself  and  all  the  world,  he  had  returned  to 
Chudleigh,  and  for  the  first  time  had  the  pleasure  of  making 
tis  daughter's  acquaintance. 

The  pleasure  was  a  very  doubtful  one.  The  widowed  aunt 
had  died  some  six  years  before,  and  Miss  Chudleigh  had  spent 
her  existence  in  a  continual  round  of  boarding-schools.  She 
never  remained  in  one  long,  somehow;  and  the  directress  al- 
ways heaved  a  great  sigh  of  relief  and  muttered  a  *'  thank 
Heaven  "  when  safely  rid  of  her. 

ISir  Rupert,  a  tall,  thin,  patrician-looking  person,  with  deli- 
cate feet  and  hands  and  h;  porsensitive  nerves,  came  within  an 
ace  of  swooning  with  horror  at  first  sight  of  his  daughter  and 
heiress.    She  was  short,  ehe^as  stout— dreadfuUjr  stout— «h0 


«» 


WHO  want 


w 


had  a  fn,f}  vcand  faoe,  intensely  red  cheeks^  a  nose  that  turned 
op,  a  voice  shrill  and  high,  thick  ankles,  and  sandy  hair. 
With  all  th's,  the  du'^ipy  little  damsel  had  had  a  narrow  e9» 
cape  from  being  pr^«r,y.  She  had  two  big,  surprised  blue  eyes, 
that  laugheii  in  your  face  as  she  looked,  teeth  that  outglittered 
pearls,  and  a  skin  like  winter  snow.  And  the  red-brown  hair 
ran  wild  in  curls  and  kinks  and  ripples  and  waves  over  the 
most  beautiful,  the  plumpest,  the  whitest  neck  in  the  world;, 
and  she  had  the  warmest  heart,  the  best  temper,  and  the  clear- ' 
est  laugh  of  any  young  lady  in  the  three  kingdoms.  She  had 
a  tendency  toward  the  *'  fast;''  she  could  gallop  at  the  heels 
of  the  hounds  in  her  scarlet  riding-habit,  taking  hedges  and 
ditches  helter-skelter,  risking  her  neck  everyday  of  her  life 
with  a  rear\y  recklessness  that  was  positively  delightful.  She' 
had  a  scoro  of  dogs,  big  and  little,  at  her  command ;  she  sung 
"  Champp^ne  Charlie  "  with  the  ensigns  and  cornets  over  at 
Speckhavcn,  and  was  summed  up  by  those  youthful  warriors 
in  that  on  !  expressive  adjective,  "  ;W///." 

As  the  lOrd  of  Chudleigh  Chase  paced  slowly  up  and  down 
the  long  drawing-room,  while  the  August  sunset  filled  the 
room  wirh  lurid  glory,  the  door  was  thrown  impetuously  open, 
and  Miss  Chudleigh,  with  cheeks  more  like  peonies  than  ever, 
bounced  in.  She  wore  a  riding-habit  of  purple  cloth,  a  purple 
cap,  with  a  long  white  plume  set  jauntily  sideways  on  her 
dancing  curls;  and  certainly,  if  not  a  Venus  de  Medici,  was  as 
bright  a  little  English  lassie  as  one  might  wish  to  see. 

"  Papa,"  she  breathlessly  cried,  "  they've  had  news  at 
Monksvvood;  they've  had  another  letter  from  Cyril  I" 

The  tall  baronet  glanced  down  at  her,  and  went  placidly  on 
wifh  his  gentle  saunter. 

*'  Gwendoline,  how  often  must  I  request  you  not  to  bounce 
in  upon  me  in  this  abrupt  manner,  or  call  out  in  that  shrill 
falsetto?  If  your  nerves  are  made  of  cast-iron,  mine  are  not." 

"  Fiddle!"  Miss  Chudleigh  came  very  near  saying,  but  she 
held  in  in  time.  *' lie  says,  papa,  he's  been  ill  again;  but 
they  may  expect  hira  shortly.  Sybil  showed  me  the  letter — 
such  a  nasty,  cold,  unfeeling  scrawl.  He  doesn't  even  say 
he's  sorry  for  the  poor  dear  old  general's  fate.  If  Sybil 
weren't  a  downright  goose  about  lots  of  things,  she'd  be  glad 
and  thankful  that  the  general  had  sense  enough  to  take  that 
last  stupid  will  with  him,  wherever  he's  gone  to.  How  she 
can  set  such  store  by  him — this  fellow  Cyril,  I  mean — I  can't 
andercomstumble. " 

*'  Gwendoline!"  cried  Sir  Kupert,  in  horror.  "  Undercome 
— ^ood  heavens  I  what  did  you  say?" 


* 


H 


WHO   WDm? 


,,.■..11 


**  Beg  your  pardon,  papal"  said  Miaa  Chudleigh,  rebuked 
"  I  forgot — I  won't  say  it  again.    B-it  I  will  say,  this  Cyri 


Tren  nion  is  a  flat  and  a  f 
"Miss  Chudleigh!"   eai 


.re!" 
'«ther,  with  awful  severity, 

if  you  talk  anymore  8la  "  'all  order  you  out  of  the 
room.     When  does  Cyril  Trevu.non      '  ho  is  coming?" 

"  Shortly — that's  all.  He  said  it  hetovd  and  he  didn't  come. 
They're  going  to  leave  Monkswood  and  go  back  to  Trevanion 
Park.  Poor,  dear,  darling  Sybil  can't  bear  the  sight  of  the 
place  now — she  does  take  on  dreadlul,  papa,  when  there's  no- 
body to  see  her  but  me.  And  it's  my  opinion  she  blames  it 
all  on  that  nasty,  smiling,  sugary  cat,  Mrs.  Ingram." 

"Nonsense,    Gwendoline!      Blame    it    on  Mrs.   Ingram? 
What  wild  absurdity!    Miss  Trevanion  has  a  little  common 
'sense,  if  you  have  not.     Such  a  preposterous  idea  never  en- 
tered her  mind." 

"Very  well,  papa,"  responded  Gwendoline,  with  a  shower 
of  nods;  "  think  so,  if  you  like,  but  it's  true.  She  doesn't 
like  Mrs,  Ingram,  and  no  more  do  I.  I  hate  people  who  say 
'yes,  dear,'  and  *  no,  love,'  every  time  I  tell  them  it's  a  fine 
day.  Mr.  Weller  says,  *  Beware  of  vidders,'  and  I  agree  with 
Mr.  Weller.  I  expect  to  be  one  some  day  myself;  but  I  sha'n'fc 
be  a  *  widow  bewitched,'  like  Mrs.  Ingram." 

**  Mrs.  Ingram  is  a  very  elegant  and  lady-like  person.  Miss 
Chudleigh,"  Sir  Rupert  said,  sternly,  V  whom  I  most  ardently 
wish  you  would  take  for  a  model.  If  Lady  Lemox  would  con- 
sent to  part  with  her,  and  she  would  consent  to  come,  nothing 
could  giva  me  more  pleasure  than  to  have  her  here  as  compan- 
ion and  instructress  lor  you.  Your  ignorance  of  the  common- 
est accomplishments  of  the  most  orcinary  rules  of  etiquette  is 
something  frightful.  You  talk  slang,  you  ride,  you  fish,  you 
shoot,  you  sing  com'o  songs,  and  know  no  more  of  the  art  of 
dress  than  a  South  African  belle.  Good  Heaven,  Gwendoline 
Chudleigh!  if  you  had  been  born  the  daughter  of  the  lowest 
chaw-bacon  in  Sussex,  you  could  hardly  have  been  worse." 

**  I  wish  I  had  been  born  the  daughter  of  a  chaw-bacon,  or 
a  fisherman,  or  a  gypsy,  or  a  strolling  plaver,  or  something 
else^free  and  jolly,"  responded  Miss  Chudleigh,  sulkily;  "I 
don't  want  to  be  '  formed,'  and  play  stupid  fugues  and  mon- 
astery bells  and  storms  and  variations,  and  .  ongs  without 
words,  and  rubbish  like  thar,  on  the  piano,  and  have  all  the 
languages,  living  and  dead,  at  mv  finjrer  ends,  and  addle  my 
brams  over  McOuliough,  and  Adam  Smith,  and  Hugh  Miller, 
and  the  rest  of  the  dreary  old  fogies..    I  know  enough  Frenck 


WHO  WIKiP 


17 


on,  or 
3thinfl: 
"1 


to  read  Dumas  and  George  Sand  in  the  original,  and  I  ota 

flay  the  *  Fishers'  Hornpipe '  the  the  '  Higliland  Fling/  and 
nan.  waltz  down  any  girl  of  my  years  and  inches  in  tilt 
county.  Everybody  likes  me  but  you,  papa,  and  I  wouldn**-. 
be  like  that  artificial,  simpering,  smooth-tongued  white  oat 
of  a  widow  for  a  kingdom.'* 

'Vith  which  Miss  Chudleigh  bounced  indignantly  out  of  the 
room,  and  plunged  headforemost  into  the  arms  of  a  tall  foot- 
man in  the  a?t  of  ushering  a  lady  into  the  drawing-room.  The 
lady  was  Mrs.  Ingram,  bewitchingly  dressed,  and  all  her  sirer 
smiles  in  full  play.  Gwendoline  rebounded  like  an  Ind'- 
rubber  ball  out  of  the  electrified  footman's  arms,  and  wfis 
gone  like  a  flash. 

**  When  we  speak  of  the  devil—"  said  Miss  Chudle  . 
"  What  on  earth  brings  her  here?  Sybil  can't  have  turned 
her  out,  and  she  can't  be  coming  to  beg  papa  to  take  her  in. 
Did  she  make  away  with  the  general,  I  wonder,  or  was  it  the 
prior's  ghost?  I'm  not  a  coward — I'd  face  a  five-foot  wall  or 
the  cholera  morbus  any  day;  but  I  wouldn't  sleep  a  night  in 
that  dreadful  old  house — no,  not  if  they  were  to  make  me  a 
present  of  it.  It's  exactly  like  the  *  Castle  of  Obranto;  or,  the 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho,'  that  I  read  when  I  was  a  little  girl, 
and  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  to  see  one  of  those  grim  old 
fellows  in  the  picture-gallery  step  out  of  his  frame,  and  ask 
me  how  I  found  myself.  If  that  widow's  coming  here  to  form 
me,  I  won't  be  formed.  I  won't  give  up  Bell's  Life  and  take 
to  High  Church  novels,  and  I  won't  resign  my  three  hours' 
gallop  with  those  ducks  of  *  subs,'  over  at  Speckhaven,  for 
three  hours'  hard  strumming  on  papa's  grand  piano;  I  won't 
learn  geology  and  mineralogy,  or  tiny  other  ology — no,  not  for 
all  the  widows  this  side  of  Pandemonium." 

Miss  Chudleigh  went  up  to  her  own  suite  of  apartments, 
and  banged  doors,  and  pitched  things  about  in  a  high  state  of 
temper,  and  not  without  cause,  for  she  had  unwittingly 
,  guessed  very  near  the  truth.  In  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  In- 
gram sat,  her  lace  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  her  voice  lost  in 
suppressed  sobs.  She  was  one  of  those  fortunate  women,  thia 
little  widow,  who  can  cry  without  reddening  their  noses,  or 
swelling  their  eyes,  or  making  their  complexions,  generally, 
like  speckled  trout.  The  soft,  black  eyes  looked  up  at  you 
like  stars  through  mist,  the  glistening  drops  fell — not  too  fast, 
nor  too  many — off  the  pearly  cheeks,  without  a  stain  behind: 
and  the  widow's  rouge  was  the  production  of  high  art,  and  did 
not  wash  off.  She  sat—  beauty  drowned  in  tears — her  voice 
laltering,  her  great  ey       azins:  Diteously  up  at  the  baronett 


y 


RP^" 


rs 


WHO  wurif 


Sir  Rupert  sat  opposite,  p-avely  playing  with  a  paper  knlfB, 
find  listening  to  the  widow  a  tale  of  woe. 

"  Miss  Trevanion  dislik'^s  and  distrusts  you,**  he  was  repeat- 
ing; "ray  dear  madame,  she  can  not  be  so  unjust  as  to  fancy 
you  in  any  way  accessory  to  her  uu'ie*s  lamentable  disappear- 
ance. Miss  I'revanion  is  a  young  lady  of  common  sense,  at 
least.'* 

*'  Prejudice  is  stronger  than  conimon  sense,*'  Mrs.  Ingrani 
answered,  sadly.  **  I  am  very,  very  unhjippy  at  Trevanion 
Park.  Lady  Lemox  is  goodness  itself — but  Lady  Lemox's 
daughter — hal  Sir  Rupert,  you  have  no  idea  how  miserable 
one  woman  can  make  another — how  terribly  merciless  she  can 
be,  particularly  when  her  victim  is  friendless  and  alone,  as  I 
amr 

"  And  yet  that  is  not  like  Sybil  Trevanion.  She  was  al- 
ways the  most  generous,  the  kiudest-hearted,  the  most  gra- 
cious to  those  beneath — "  The  baronet  pulled  himself  up 
shortly,  *<  However,  aa  you  say,  prejudice,  in  this  case,  may 
be  stronger  than  generosity.  And,  my  dear  madame,  if  you 
really  wish  to  leave  Lady  Lemox,  why  not  come  hero?  I  de- 
sire a  companion  exceedingly  for  my  daughter,  and  1  know  of 
no  one  whom  I  would  so  greatly  like  to  see  filling  that  office 
as  yourself." 

The  widow  clasped  her  hands — and  the  soft,  black  eyes 
looked  speechless  ecstasies  of  gratitude. 

"  Oh,  thanks.  Sir  Rupert!  a  thousand  thanks!  It  is  what 
I  have  been  hoping  for  most  ardently,  but  scarcely  dared  to 
ask.  The  meager  annuity  loft  me  by  my  late  husband  would 
barely  suffice  to  keep  me  in  clothing,  and  then  he  died  deeply 
involved,  and  those  debts  I  try  in  my  poor  way  to  pay — " 
The  lace  handkercliief  in  requisition  again.  **  Dear  Sir  Ru- 
pert, you  have  made  me  very  happy — I  knezo  I  should  find  a 
true  friend  in  you." 

The  baronet  bowed,  very  well  pleased.  It  was  something 
Very  new  to  him,  this  coming  out  as  philanthropist,  and  de- 
cidedly pleasant.  A  pretty  young  widow,  figuratively  at  your 
feet,  kissing  the  hem  of  your  garment,  is  not  without  its  in- 
toxication, when  you  are  an  elderly  widower  of  fifty  odd,  with 
an  eye  left  still  for  the  fine  points  of  a  woman. 

*'  You  will  do  us  the  honor  of  dining  with  us,  Mrs.  Ingram," 
the  baronet  said  in  his  most  stately  manner,  '*  I  am  still  in 
my  morning-gown,  as  you  see,  but  the  wretched  state  of  my 
health  must — " 

"  Dear  Sir  Rupert,"  Mrs.  Ingram  said,  rising  and  inter- 
nip.ting,  '*  pray  oit'er  no  apology— we  all  know  the  sad  state  of 


WHO  want 


poor 


your  healfch.  Ah  I  life  l^as  many  drawbacks,  evpn  for  the^ 
great  and  the  good  I  I  will  not  remain  to-day — thanks,  dear 
Sir  Rupert— I  must  return  to  Trevanion  in  time  to  dine  with 
Lady  Lemox,  and  break  the  news  of  my  speedy  departure. 
She  will  grieve  sincerely,  I  know— she  really  cares  for 
little  lonely  me.*' 

"  A  not  very  difficult  task,  I  should  imagine,"  Sir  Rupert 
oaid,  blandly.  "  I  congratulate  myself  and  ray  daughter  ou 
our  good  fortune.  When  will  you  come,  Mrs.  Ingram,  to 
brighten  our  rather  dull  old  house?" 

*'  I  will  come  next  week — this  is  Friday — on  Monday,  then, 
probably.  My  preparations  are  few  and  easily  rr\adc,  and  the 
sooner  t  leave,  the  oetter  Miss  Trevanion  v/ill  be  pleased.  It 
is  very  hard  to  be  so  misjudged;  but  thanks  to  your  great 
goodness,  dear  Sir  Rupert,  I  can  even  bear  more  than  that. 
Accept  the  warmest  thanks  of  a  grateful  heart,  and  allow  me 
to  bid  you  good -day." 

A  gush  of  perfume — she  lifted  his  long,  lean  hand,  all  spark- 
ling with  splendid  rings,  to  her  lips,  and  kissed  it  impetuously 
— a  last  tender  glance  of  the  luminous  black  eyes — a  swish  of 
silk,  and  the  elegant  widow  was  gone. 

"Really,"  Sir  Rupert  Chudleigh  thought,  settling  himself 
in  his  easy-chair,  and  looking  complacently  at  his  pink  finger- 
nails, **  a  most  elegant  and  thoroughly  lady-like  person.  She 
will  light  up  our  dreary  rooms,  like  one  of  Greuze's  plump 
beauties  stepped  out  of  its  frame.  Her  manners  are  perfection, 
and  her  eyes  the  finest  I  think  I  oversaw.  That  Ingram  must 
have  been  rather  a  happy  fellow.  It  is  to  be  hc-ped  she  will 
succeed  in  toning  down  that  terrible  child,  Gwendolino. 
Heavens  above!  to  think  that  7  should  be  parent  to  such,  a 
bouncer  as  that." 

The  widow  drove  home  through  the  amber  mist  of  the  sun- 
eet,  her  face  as  luminous  with  triumph  as  the  radiant  sky. 

**  *  I  came — I  saw — I  conquered!'"  she  thought,  with  an 
exultant  little  laugh.  *'  I  can  atford  to  cry  ^uits  with  you 
now,  my  uplifted  Princess  Sj'bil!  When  I  write  my  name 
Lady  Chudleigh,  who  will  be  conqueress  theji  ?  And  Til  do 
5t,  too,  before  the  year  ends,  if  Dame  Fate,  who  has  stood  my 
friend  so  long,  does  not  desert  me  at  the  supreme  hour,  and 
send  that  detestable  Cyril  Trevanion  here  to  betray  me.  And 
yet  he  may  come  and  not  know  me,  after  all." 

She  reached  the  house,  as  the  silvery  haze  of  the  summer 
twilight  was  falling,  and  ran  np  at  once  to  the  drawing-room. 
But  hi  the  door-way  she  paused,  for  Sybil  Trevanion  stood 
talking  to  her  mother^  with  that  fixed,  infiexibie  look  on  her 


wd  WHO  wnrs? 

i)Ble,  beautiful  face  the  widow  liad  learned  to  know  fo  well 
My  lady's  handkerchief  was  at  hor  eyes.  Neither  noticed  the 
eavesdropper  in  the  door. 

**  It  is  very  unkind— it  is  frightfully  cruel  of  you,  Sybill'* 
my  ladv  said  in  a  wliimperiiig  voice.  '*  But  you  always  %otr% 
as  obstinate  as  a  mule.  JJo  you  suppose  Edith  Ingram  carried 
off  the  poor  dear  general  bodily  and  buried  him  alive?  Even 
then  Ihev  would  have  found  his  bones.  The  idea  of  your 
blaming  her  is  too  monstrouF.  llow  could  she  help  dropping 
asleep,  any  more  than  CIcantc  or  Telfer?  and  you  don't 
dream  of  accusing  them.  You  call  yourself  a  Christian,  Miss 
Trevanion,  and  you  attend  church  two  or  three  times  of  a 
Sunday,  and  you  visit  wretched  sick  paupers  in  Speckhaven, 
in  their  filthy  little  rooms,  and  read  the  Bible  to  them,  and 
all  that,  and  you  think  nothing  next  moment  of  turning  round 
and  accusing  an  innouent  person  of  murder.  Very  consistent 
religion  yours  is,  indeed!" 

**  I  accuse  no  one,"  Sybil  said,  wearily.  "  I  have  no  proof. 
But  foul  play  has  been  done  in  some  way,  mamma.  Some 
day  wo  will  know.  You  remember  what  the  German  poet 
sayS;  mamma: 

"  '  Tlie  mills  of  tlie  gods  grind  slowly, 
Bui  Ihey  grind  exceeding  small.' 

Some  day  the  truth  will  appear.  Meantime,  I  don*t  likp 
Mrs.  Ingram,  and  I  can  not  dwell  in  the  same  house  with 
her.  I  leave  Monkswood  to-morrow,  and  never  return  here. 
I  don't  want  to  meet  that  woman  again.  Heaven  forgive  me 
if  I  do  her  wrong,  but  I  disliked  and  distrusted  her  from  the 
first.  There  is  something  ,  f  the  snake  about  her,  I  believe — 
its  deadly  glitter  in  her  black  eyes,  its  fatal  hiss  in  her  voice, 
its  deadly  enchantment  in  her  smile.  I  don't  like  her,  mam- 
ma, and  she  doesn't  like  me.  One  house  can  not  hold  us 
both." 

Lady  Lemox  sniffed  audibly  behind  her  perfumed  cloud  of 
cambric. 

**  You  heartless  girl!  It  must  be  as  you  say,  of  course,  since 
you  are  mistress  litre;  but  I  never  thought  you  were  so  utterly 
selfish.  Y^'ou  think  of  no  one  but  3^ourself,  your  likes  and  dis- 
likes. You  don't  care  what  becomes  of  ti\e.  Who  will  write 
my  letters?  Who  will  read  all  the  new  novels  to  me?  Who 
will  sing  me  to  sleep?    Who  will — " 

But  here  the  thought  of  the  terrible  misery  impending  was 
too  much  for  Lady  Lemox;  her  voice  was  lest  in  tears. 
t^**Dear  mamma,"  Sybil  said,  smiling  in  spito  of  herself. 


WSO  Willi? 


M 


"  the  case  is  not  so  harrowing  as  you  make  it  out.  Let  m« 
take  Mrs.  Ingram's  place — let  me  do  all  these  things  for  yoo. 
Beh'eve  me,  you  will  find  m?  ready  and  willing  at  all  times." 
She  drew  out  her  watch.  '*  Past  seven,"  she  taid.  "  I  must 
return  at  once.  Give  Mrs.  Ingram  warning,  mamma,  whoa 
«he  returns.  If  money  bo  any  compeusat'ou,  draw  freely  on 
me.    Only,  go  she  must  I" 

She  turned  round  toward  the  door,  and  for  the  first  time 
saw  the  widow,  motionless  as  a  statue,  listening  to  every  word. 
There  was  a  slow,  mockin?  smile  on  her  face,  and  the  large 
dark  03'es  looked  full  at  Sybil,  with  a  dangerous  gleam  in  their 
Bhining  depths. 

Miss  Trevanion  returned  that  sinister  gaze  with  brightly 
fearless  eyes. 

**  Pray,  Mrs.  Ingram,"  she  said,  "  how  long  have  you  been 
listening  there?  Long  enougji,  I  trust,  to  hear  what  I  have 
been  saying  to  Lady  Lcmox." 

"  Quite  long  enough,  Miss  Trevanion."  She  advanced  into 
the  room  as  she  spoke.  '*  But  it  is  no  news  to  me.  I  am 
fully  aware  that  you  have  honored  me  with  your  strongest  ha- 
tred ever  since  my  arrival  here.  And  you  wish  to  give  mo  my 
dismissal?  Permit  me,  if  you  please,  to  take  the  initiative.  1 
leave  here  on  Monday  morning." 

Miss  Trevanion  bowed  coldly,  swept  past  her,  and  was 
gone.  Very  fair  and  stately  the  handsome  heiress  looked  in 
her  trailing  crape  and  sables — a  lady  to  her  finger-tips. 

A  tiny  phaeton  and  two  lovely  cream-colored  ponies  stood 
awaiting  her.  Sybil  'rove  those  superb  thorough-breds  her- 
self, handling  tho  ribu  )ns  in  masterly  style,  though  by  nc 
means  capable  c*  coping  with  Gwendoline  Chudleigh,  who 
drove  four-in-hand,  smokiJig  a  cigarette  to  the  last  ash  with- 
out ever  turning  pale,  or  whistling  tho  '*  College  Hornpipe  " 
with  the  best  Cantab  from  college. 

The  last  red  glimmer  of  the  sunset  had  faded  away  in  silver 
gray,  and  a  brightly  beautiful  moon  trembled  on  the  edge  of 
an  opal  sky.  One  by  one  the  sunimor  stars  gleamed  out,  one 
by  one  the  nightingales  chanted  in  tho  green  gloom  of  the 
woods.  The  hedge-rows  were  all  a^low,  and  the  secret  scent 
of  new-mown  hay  filled  the  air.  The  lazy  cows  in  the  mead- 
ows lifted  their  slow  brown  eyes  to  see  the  dashing  little  drag 
flash  by,  and  a  great  peace  came  into  the  gill's  heart  with  the 
holy  hush  of  eventide. 

Under  the  silvery  stars,  the  woodland  glades,  the  fern 
groves,  the  waving  trees,  the  arrand  old  Priory  looked  very  fair 
and  peaceful* 


.t'\ 


« 


WHO  wnref 


"  How  beautiful  ifc  all  is!"  Sybil  thought,  with  a  wistful  libi 
tie  eigh— "  the  dear  old  Priory!  the  grand  old  Parkl  Ah,  it 
Cyril  would  but  return — if  my  *  Prince  Charlie '  would  but 
come  back  to  claim  his  own  again!" 

She  stopped,  a  little  surprised  by  something  that  met  her 
eye.  She  had  not  entered  under  the  great  archway,  but  by 
the  west  gate,  a  less  pretentious  and  more  retired  way. 

It  was  the  terminus  of  the  Prior's  Walk,  and  a  quaint, 
m'^diasval  old  house,  all  peaked  gables,  and  stacks  of  chim- 
neys, and  diamond-paned  casements  stood  here,  half  hidden  in 
a  wilderness  of  roses  and  ivy  and  sweet-brier.  It  was  called 
the  Prior's  Retreat,  and  at  odd  times  had  been  rented  to  any 
respectable  tenant  willing  to  pay  a  large  rent  for  a  very  incon- 
venient residence. 

Of  late  years  ifc  had  been  quite  deserted — haunted,  of  course, 
like  the  Prior's  Walk — and  the  sight  that  surprised  Sybil  now 
was  to  see  smoke  cnrliug  upward  from  the  chimneys  and  a  biff 
Livonian  wolf-hound  gamboling  ponderously  about.  A  second 
more,  and  she  came  directly  in  front  of  the  Ketreat,  and  in 
eight  of  its  new  occupant. 

Leaning  with  folded  arms  over  the  little  rustic  gate,  was  a 
man — a  gentleman.  Sybil  saw  that,  in  spite  of  a  shabby 
ehooting-coat  and  a  broad-brimmed,  foreign-looking  hat. 

He  was  smoking  a  pipe — a  short,  fierce-looking,  black  thing 
loaded  to  the  muzzle — and  gazing  with  dark,  dreamy  eyes  at 
the  tremulous  brilliance  of  that  beautiful  moon.  A  tall  and 
powerful-looking  man,  somewhere  about  thirty,  with  a  black 
cascade  of  mustache  and  beard.  That  magnilicent  beard  hid 
all  t'^e  lower  part  of  his  face  completely,  and  what  was  left 
was  tanned  deep  bronze,  as  if  from  long  exposure  to  tropic 
suns.  But  you  saw  two  powerful  black  eyes,  large,  bright, 
strong,  and  clear,  a  handsome  nose,  jetty  masses  of  wavy  hair, 
and  a  noble  head. 

Sybil  stared  in  wonder. 

As  the  gentleman  encountered  the  clear  gaze  of  the  lovely 
violet  eyes,  ho  started  up,  removed  his  pipe,  took  off  his  hat, 
and  stood,  gravely  uncovered,  before  the  fair  young  chatelaine. 

The  graceful  head  bent  ever  so  slightly,  she  touched  the 
spirited  ponies  with  her  whip,  and  vanished  amid  the  trees. 

Lounging  on  the  portico,  "  doing  the  dolce,"  as  he  called 
it,  was  her  brother.     He  rose  languidly  at  ?'ght  of  her. 

**  You've  been  gcno  ages,  haven't  you,  Sybil?  And 
there's-" 

"  Charley,"  Sybil  interrupted,  "  who  is  that  at  the  Re- 
treat?   I  saw  a  gentleman  jist  now  as  I  drove  by." 


WRO   WrBTSP 


.,-.% 


<«  Did  your*  said  Charley.  "  Then  you  saw  a  very  fina 
fellow,  let  me  tell  you.  That's  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor,  tho 
new  tenant.  Reedworth,  the  steward,  has  r^jnted  the  old 
rookery,  and  I've  had  the  pleasure  and  profit  of  making  the 
new  tenant's  acquaintance.  He's  a  gentleman  from  foreign 
parts — been  pig-sticking  and  boar-hunting  in  Suabia,  1  believe 
— of  a  literary  turn — writes  books  and  all  that,  and  has  taken 
the  Retreat  for  a  year  to  pursue  literature  on  the  quiet.  Nice 
fellow — very  intelligent — been  pretty  well  everywhere,  and  fur- 
ther— writes  jolly  books  about  it,  and  makes  lots  of  money,  I 
daresay.     Lucky  beggar!    I  wish  I  could  write  books." 

"  If  you  could,  you  would  be  too  lazy  to  do  it.  Tell  Will- 
iams to  rub  down  the  ponies.  Are  you  going  to  dine  with  me, 
Charley,  or—" 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  to  dine  with  j'ou,  Sybil,  if  you  don't  for- 

fet  all  about  so  sublunary  a  matter  in  talking  to  Mr.  Cyril 
'revanion.  He's  sold  out,  he  tells  me,  so  we  needn's  be  afc 
the  trouble  of  giving  him  military  prefixes.  Did  I  tell  you  he 
had  come?" 

"Come!"  Sybil  gasped,  her  eyes  wild  and  wide.  "Cyril 
come!    Oh,  Charley!  you  never  mean  to  say — " 

"  My  dearest  Sybil,"  she  Etonian  remarked,  with  his  most 
exasperating  drawl,  '*  don't  excite  yourself;  don't  get  the 
steam  up,  I  beg.  Yes,  I  do  mean  to  say,  *  The  chief  of  Lara 
has  returned  again,'  and  about  as  gloomy  and  grumpy  a  chap 
as  I've  seen  this  some  time.  I  was  on  the  point  of  telling  you 
at  first,  when  you  so  very  impolitely  interrupted  me.  I  ratnei 
think  you'll  find  him  in  the  drawing-room." 

Charley  stretched  himself  out  again,  exhausted,  and  closed 
his  eyes.  Sybil  stood  still  a  moment,  her  heart  throbbing,  her 
color  coming  and  going.  At  last  her  hero  had  come!  Then 
she  started  up,  swept  past  Charley,  and  hurried  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. 


CHAPTER  XL 
sybil's  hero. 

He  was  there.  Standing  before  one  of  the  long,  narrow 
windows,  gazing  out  at  the  purple  twilight  gemmed  with  golden 
stars,  at  his  own  wide  domain,  lordless  so  long,  stood  the  hero 
of  her  dreams,  thought  of,  longed  for,  i-*eal:zed  all  her  life- 
Cyril  Trevanion. 

A  tall,  dark  man— she  saw  that  before  ho  turned  round— 
with  glistening  tlireads  oi  silver  m  the  raven  blackness  of  his 


H 


WHO    WIFSP 


hair;  more  slender  and  less  stalwart  of  figure,  than  the  Tre. 
vanionb  were  wont  to  be. 

As  the  faint,  subtle  odor  o!  perfume,  the  light  swish  of  her 
silken  robe,  the  first  faiut  feminine  exclamation  reached  him, 
he  swung  round,  advanced  a  step,  and  Sj'bil  and  Cyril  stood 
face  to  face. 

Fifteen  years  before  they  had  parted  down  yonder,  under 
the  ancestral  oaks  and  eJms,  she  clinging  to  his  neck,  he  kiss-i 
ing  and  bidding  her  good-bye,  on  his  way  to  that  fatal  bride 
for  whom  he  had  lost  all.  And  now  they  looked  in  each  other'c 
eyes  again. 

Child  as  she  had  been,  ehe  remembered  vividly  how  he  had 
looked  that  night,  beautiful,  with  r^-^an's  best  beauty,  bright- 
eyed,  clear-browed,  hopeful,  and  handsome. 

And  now!  He  stood  before  her,  pale  almost  to  ghasfclinese, 
deep  bistre  tints  under  the  large  black  eyes,  a  jetty  mustache 
shading  the  stern,  set  mouth,  and  a  dark,  fixed  gravity  over- 
shadowing all  the  face.  It  was  Cyril  Trevanion — she  knew 
him  at  once — but  darkly,  sadly  changed. 

The  glad  words  of  welcome  died  out  on  Sybil's  lips.  Some- 
thing in  the  stony  fixedness  of  that  rigid  faced  chilled  to  the 
core  of  her  heart. 

"  My  brother  told  me  you  were  here,"  she  said,  advancing 
with  outstretched  hand,  and  all  the  sympathy  she  dared  not 
express  shining  in  the  eloquent  violet  eyes.  **  We  have  been 
looking  forward  to  your  coming  this  long,  long  time.  I  need 
not  say  how  happy  I  am  to  welcome  you  back  to  Monkswood, 
Colonel  Trevanion." 

In  the  da3's  gone  by  Sybil  had  improvised  some  hundreds  of 
eloquent  and  pathetic  little  speeches  wherewith  to  welcome 
her  '*  prince  "  home.  Now  the  prince  stood  before  her,  and 
the  welcome  resolved  itself  into  these  commonplace  words. 
Cyril  Trevanion  bent  an  instant  over  the  pearly  hand,  then 
dropped  itc  It  was  the  hand  upon  which  the  solitaire,  his 
parting  gift,  shuue;  but  he  did  not  see  it. 

"  It  is  a  very  painful  return,  Miss  Trevanion,"  he  said,  and 
even  his  very  voice  seemed  strangely  changed  to  Sybil;*' as 
painful  as  the  parting.  I  find  my  father  dead,  his  fate 
wrapped  in  darkest  m}stery,  and  Monkswood,  blooming  once, 
*  as  the  rose,'  changed  to  a  forsaken  wilderness.  My  poor  fa- 
ther I  I  wish  to  Heaven  it  had  been  in  my  power  to  reach 
here  sooner I" 

He  turned  away  from  her,  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
agam  at  the  silvery  gloaming  settling  over  the  yellow  Sussex 
downs. 


WHO  wnfsf 


a« 


**  Yes,"  Sybil  answered,  "  it  is  a  pity.  He  wished  to  seo 
you  so  much,  to  forgive  you  so  ardeutly,  to  look  hia  last  ci\ 
your  face  before  he  died.  Tiie  horrible  darkness  that  shrouds 
his  end  nearly  drives  me  wild  when  I  think  of  it.  It  is  the 
most  utterly  incomprehensible  mystery  that  was  ever  heard  of. 
The  house  was  carefully  bolted  and  secured;  it  held  but  a  few 
women  and  two  or  three  faithful  men-servai.ts.  lie  was  ut- 
terly unable  to  quit  his  bed,  to  raise  himself  in  it  of  himself. 
I  leave  him  for  a  few  hours  in  charge  of  Mrs.  Telfer,  Cleante, 
and  Mrs.  Ingiuiu,  and  lo!  in  the  morning  he  is  gone  as  if  he 
had  been  spirited  bodily  away!  Not  a  trace,  not  a  clew  re- 
mains. The  watchers  slept,  everything  is  found  secure  as  we 
left  it;  but  not  the  faintest  vestige  of  his  m3'sterious  fate  re- 
mains. I  go  half  mad  with  wonder  and  terror  when  I  think 
of  it." 

"  It  iff  most  extraordinary.  And  those  watchers — had  you 
implicit  faith  in  them?" 

"  Mrs.  Telfer  and  Cleante  you  know.  Colonel  Trevanion,^' 
Sybil  responded,  a  little  surprised.  "  They  have  been  in  his 
service  these  thirty  years.  As  for  Mrs.  Ingram,  she  is  a  lady, 
and  mamma's  friend,  and,  of  course.  General  Trevanion  and 
his  will  could  be  nothing  to  her.     You  know,  Colonel  Trevau- 


j> 


ion,"  hesitating  slightly,  *'  that  the  new  will,  that  left  all  to 
you  as  it  should  always  have  been  left,  disappeared  with  him." 

**  1  know  it — yes.  I  don't  regret  that.  Permit  me  to  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  accession.  You  will  make  a  much  bet- 
ter use  of  all  these  ingots  than  I  would  ever  do.  You  have 
been  my  father's  one  comfort  and  solace  all  these  years,  I 
know.     His  companion  almost  always,  were  you  not?" 

*•■  Since  I  left  school,  and  I  left  very  early — yes.  The  last 
three  years  we  spent  in  Italy  and  the  south  of  France;  but  hip 
constitution  was  entirely  gone,  and,"  with  a  sh)-,  wistful 
glance,  "  he  never  was  the  same.  Cousin  Cyril,  since  he  lost 
you.  lie  loved  you  very  dearly.  He  forgave  you  in  his  heart 
long  ago,  I  know.  I  think,  sometimes,  it  might  have  added 
years  to  his  life  to  have  had  you  by  his  side." 

The  moody  darkness  on  the  brow  of  the  ex-colonel  of  cav- 
alry deepened.  He  made  no  reply;  and  at  the  moment 
Charley  came  lounging  in,  with  h:"s  habitual  lazy  hir. 

*'  The  '  tocsin  of  the  soul  *  has  sounded,  Miss  Trevanion, 
and  your  only  brother  is  hungry  enough  to  eat  fricasseed 
monlcoy,  if  yon  don't  tell  him  wiij^.t  it  is.  Macgrcgor  was 
finipe-skootinff  to-day,  and  .^orluced  me  Into  accompanying  him; 
and  I  hope  Afr.  Macgregor's  head  won't  ache  until  ne  catches 
me  ftt  it  again.    The  way  that  man  swings  over  '  brake,  busfa« 


M 


WHO    WINSf 


and  scaur '  might  take  the  conceit  out  of  the  favorite  for  the 
Derby.  Pedestrian  exercise  is  healthy,  they  say.  I  don't 
knovtr;  never  went  in  for  it  much;  but  I  have  my  doubts,  if  it 
makes  a  man's  appetite  so  painful.  If  you've  done  all  your 
pretty  speeches  to  the  returned  chieftain,  Sybil,  we'll  adjourn 
to  dinner." 

The  trio  adjourned  at  once  to  the  dining-room,  not  the  great 
dining-room  of  Monkswood,  which  was  about  as  vast  and 
cheerful  as  a  church,  but  to  a  cozy  little  apartment  opening 
off  the  drawing-room,  all  brilliant  with  the  light  of  many  wax 
candles,  and  all  a-glitter  with  glass  and  Sevres  ana  quaint  old 
silver,  and  where  a  butler,  majestic  enough  and  solemn  enough 
for  an  armbishop,  stood  awaiting  them. 

It  was  rather  a  silent  meal,  or  would  have  been,  only  for 
Charley.  Colonel  Trevanio.i  s  moodiness  seemed  a  chronio 
complaint.  He  sat  like  a  statue  of  dark  marble  among  the 
wax-lights  and  the  flowers,  eating  little,  drinking  less,  and 
talking  least  of  all. 

Sybil  felt  a  painful  sense  of  constraint,  a  chilling  sensatic  j 
of  aisappointment.  It  was  hard  to  find  anything  to  say  to 
that  fixed,  inflexible  face.  But  Charley,  who  was  equal  to  a 
conversational  monologue  at  any  time,  tali.;.;  way,  and  did 
his  best  to  draw  Sybil's  hero  out. 

"  I  trust  you  have  no  objection  to  fighting  your  battles  over 
again.  Colonel  Trevanion?"  he  said,  eying  his  tall  companion. 
*"  Sybil  is  soldier-mad,  you  know,  and  nothing  less  than  the 
whole  Crimean  campaign  will  satisfy  her.  You'll  find  it  fa- 
tiguing, very  likely;  but  you're  in  for  it.  Russians  may  have 
some  mercy,  but  a  woman  has  none.     By  the  bye,  you'll  meet 


some — what's  their 


names?- 


brothers-in-arms  over  there  at 


Speckhaven;  one  or  two  of  your  old  regiment,  even,  I  believe." 
The  f"ce  of  Cyril  Trevanion  flushed  deep  dark-red,  and  his 


fell. 


bold  bui'  K  eye^ 

"  I  have  no  des^Vo  to  meet  any  of  my  old  comrades,"  he 
mid,  curtly.  *'  The  circumstances  under  which  I  return,  the 
painfui  p3o.,  liie— "  He  stoprjd  confusedly.  "I  wish  to 
renew  no  o].}  uc'j'iiunit  n  3es,  nor  form  any  new  ones.  I  prefer 
to  rema'i!  f 'icireiy  .ilone  for  th'^  present." 

**  Oh,"  Oimrloy  firawled,  "  Diogenes  and  his  tub,  Robinson 
Crnsoe  at  jyion'i;.HOud  Waste!  \our  views  of  life  appear  to 
have  changed  Ji^hiiilernbly  of  late.  I  thought  the  stories  they 
tell  at  the  moss-taole  of  your  wonderful  conviviality  and  good- 
fellowship  had  a  tciich  of  ihc  long  bow.  They'll  rather  won- 
der at  the  change — the  fellows  of  the  Fifteenth — at  your  turn- 
ing hermit  and  living  alone  with  tho  prior's  ghost.    Do  jott 


'AM^'A^f^.iiii.^^if'Sikmii.i't'asL:fSa^^ 


wtto  wnrs? 


9ft 


remember  meeting  an  Englishman — a  Scotchman,  rather- 
named  Macgregor,  out  in  Lima,  last  year?  He  tells  me  he 
met  you  there;  and  as  he's  a  tenant  of  yours  now,  perhaps 
you'll  like  to  renew  Zti6*  acquaintance." 

Again  the  deep>red  flush  rose  over  Cyril's  swarthy  face. 

"No,"  he  said,  siiUenlyj  "I  wish  to  ren'jw  710  one's  ao- 
quaiiitance.  I  remember  no  Macgregor  at  Lima.  A  man 
can't  bo  expected  to  keep  posted  as  to  every  John  Bull  or 
raw-boned  Scotchman  he  meets  on  his  travels." 

There  was  something  so  vindictive  in  his  tone — something 
so  rude  in  his  words — that  Sybil  loolced  at  him  in  shocked 
wonder.     But  her  brother  was  in  nowise  moved. 

*'  Very  true,"  he  said  in  his  softest  voice;  **  only  when  the 
*  raw-boned  Scotchman  '  suffers  to  save  our  life,  it  gives  him — 
well,  a  slight  claim  to  a  place  in  our  recollection.  But  per- 
haps the  street  brawl  in  which  he  saved  you  from  a  Spanish 
dirk  has  slipped  your  memory  too?" 

"  I  was  ill  of  a  fever  after  I  left  Lima,"  Cyril  Trevanion 
fciaid,  with  a  moody  look  of  injury.  **  It  was  at  Valparaiso;  a 
very  dangerous  brain  fever,  in  which  my  life  and  reason  were 
both  despaired  of.  I  recovered,  contrary  to  all  expectation; 
bat  a  very  remarkable  change  had  been  wrought.  A/l  the  past 
was  a  blank.  I  remembered  ijothing  of  my  whole  life  before 
that  fatal  fever — not  my  own  name." 

Sybil  uttered  an  exclamation.  Charley  looked  at  him  fur* 
tiveiy,  a  curious  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  but  his  face  preternat- 
uraliy  solemn. 

The  ex-colonel  was  gazing  into  his  plate.  He  did  not  seem 
to  fancy  meeting  their  gaze. 

*'  Ah!"  Charley  said,  patheticallj%  "  what  a  very  remari'-a- 
ble  fever,  and  how  I  wish  some  of  my  creditors  could  catch  it. 
If  only  a  man's  boot-maker  and  tailor  lost  their  memory,  what 
an  Elysiimi  this  earth  would  he!  And  so  you  have  forgotten 
3ver.y thing,  and  the  waters  of  Lethe  are  no  fable,  after  all? 
rU  mention  it  to  ^Macgregor;  it  may  save  him  some  trouble. 
He  appeared  to  have  been  tolerably  intimate  with  yoa  out 
there.     Most  astonishing  case  you  ever  hoard  of — eh,  Sybil?'* 

There  was  a  covert  mockery  in  Charley's  tone,  which  h.  ^ 
sister  was  quick  to  detect.  The  painful  sense  of  constraint 
deepened.  It  was  a  relief  when  dinner  was  over,  and  they 
reciirned  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  Etonian  stretched  him^^elf  upon  a  sofa,  and  went  on 
with  his  work  of  drawing  out  the  returned  hero;  '  ut  Colonel 
Trevanion  drov;  out  so  extremely  fine  that  even  v  arley  was 
baffled.    Of  his  battles  in  India  and  Russia,  of  his  travels  in 


u 


WHO  WDTSr 


South  America  and  Central  Abia,  Cyrii  Trevanion  was  strit 
ingly  reserved  a:iU  taciturn. 

°*  *  On  their  own  merits  modest  men  are  dumb/  **  quoted 
Charley.     *'  My  own  case  precisely.     Tve  covered  myself  with 

flory  some  hundreds  of  times  in  stand-up  fights  with  bigger 
oys;  I've  had  a  set-to  with  a  distinguished  member  of  the 
P.  E.,  Bully  Brittles,  and  I  licked  Bully;  but  1  never  epeak 
of  these  exploits.     It's  not  a  lack  of  memory,  either;   it'£ 

fenuine  innate  modesty^  the  real,  ivnadulterated  tSimon  Pure. 
jet's  have  somo  music,  Sybil.     Talking  doesn't  seem  to  be 
the  coloriel's  forte." 

Cyril  Trevanion  took  his  departure  earl3\  He  was  stopping 
atone  of  the  Spcckhaven  hotels.  The  brother  aai  sister 
watched  him  mount  his  horse  and  ride  away  in  the  soft  sum- 
mer moonlight.  Ho  had  aj^reed,  before  that  leave-taking,  to 
accompany  tiiem  to  "'revanion  Park  on  the  n.jrrow,  and  re- 
main their  guest  for  the  |) resent. 

**  Rum  sort  of  chap,  that  hero  of  yours,  Sybil!"  the  Eton- 
i;:ir  said;,  as  the  dark  horseman  disappeared.  "  Don't  remem- 
ber his  oldest  friends,  or  the  man  that  saved  his  life  a  year 
ago,  and  eats  fish  wii^h  his  knife.  But  then  that  fever.  How's 
your  ideal  now,  my  dear,  rojiiantic,  novel-reading  sister?  Con- 
siderably shattered,  eh?  If  he  were  anything  less  than  a  hero, 
and  the  last  of  all  the  great  Trevanions,  who  7)ei'sr  go  wrong, 
I  should  say  he  was  about  the  greatest  guy  and  the  sulkiest 
lent  I've  come  across  lately.  The  man  who  can  eat  salmon 
cuUets  with  his  krife,  an;'  drink  out  of  his  finger-glass,  it/ 
capable  of  any  ear(hi\  eriu»e.'' 

But  Sybil  was  go'^c.  Sbo  tiiti  '\  up  the  dark,  polished  oakei; 
stair-way,  and  di^^aijp^.v  -i  ii'  hui  own  room. 

The  night-lamp  burned  uini,  brit  thb  lovely  summer  moon- 
light streamed  in,  and  pui  >  shame  i^  feeble  glimmer.  She 
blew  it  out,  and  ?;it  down  I  '  the  .t'inuow,  her  chin  resting  on 
lier  hanc^ ,  the  de(^;j,  dark  e}  i  looking  ihour^httully  out  over 
the  silvery  grove'  of  fe?"n,  the  waving  iioes,  the  vei vet-green 
glades  of  Monkcvood  Waste. 

And  so  the  dream  of  her  life  was  realized — Cyril  Trevanion 
was  ccme.  A  cold,  leaden  sense  of  chill  and  disappointment 
weighed  down  her  h*?art  like  lead.  He  was  so  ditlerent — oh, 
BO  diffcr'3nt!— from  the  Cyril  she  remembered,  from  the  hero 
of  heidrcama.  She  had  read,  she  had  heard  of  his  brilliant 
exploits,  of  his  matchless  bravery,  cf  his  counuess  "deeds  ol 
derring-doj"  h&whe  Ivd.l  sv/cpt  d'own,an  ;ncaniate  whirlwind, 
upon  hordes  of  turbaned  Sikhs  and  yellow  KHfiferf,  and  turned 
the  tide  of  victory  at  Um  iaci  hi-kiirC  hoiw  he  had  stormed  b»t- 


»maSm&?y--&^' 


WHO  wim  f 


8# 


teries,  and  led  forlorn  hopes,  and  ridden  with  the  glorious  Six 
Hiindred  up  the  deadly  heights  of  Balaklava. 

And  when  her  eyes  had  flashed,  and  her  cheeks  flushed,  and 
her  heart  throbbed  aiinost  to  bursting  with  pride  and  joy,  she 
had  remembered  that  this  invincible  hero,  this  Coeur  de  Lion, 
had  kissed  and  caressed  her  at  parting,  and  given  her  the  soli- 
taire she  wore  by  night  and  by  day  as  a  token  of  his  love. 

**  My  hero,  my  king!'*  the  young  enthusiast  would  cry, 
passionately  kissing  it,  "I  would  die  for  you  I  Oh,  to  be  a 
man,  and  such  a  man  as  he  I  Oh,  for  the  dear  old  days  of 
chivalry  and  romance,  when  girls  could  go,  disguised,  and 
play  page,  at  least,  to  their  liege  lord  and  knight.  My  own 
brave  Cyril!" 

And  now  the  great  dream  of  her  life  was  realized;  her  lion- 
hearted  had  come — a  tall,  black-browed,  sullen  gentleman, 
wrapped  in  gloom  as  in  a  mantle,  guilty  of  awkwardnesses  that 
made  the  high-bred  I'ldy's  hair  rise,  and  most  &haniefully  un- 
grateful to  the  man  who,  only  a  year  before,  had  saved  his 
life. 

One  by  one  the  slow  tears  arose  in  the  proud  eyes  and  fell, 
she  was  so  unutterably  sh  ncked  and  disappointed.  Her  idol  of 
old  was  but  potter's  clay.     Poor  Sybil! 

The  hours  of  the  genial  July  night  wore  on.  She  had  little 
desire  for  sleep.  A  sonorous  clock  over  the  stables  struck 
loudly  the  midnight  hour  before  she  awoke  from  her  painful 
reverie. 

With  a  long,  shivering  sigh,  she  was  about  to  rise  and  pre- 
pare for  bed,  when  something  caught  her  eye  that  riveted  her 
to  the  spot,  and  set  her  heart  beating  wildly  with  a  sensation 
akin  to  terror. 

A  figure  was  moving  amid  the  shrubbery — a  tall  figure, 
wearing  some  kind  of  dark,  shrouding  garment,  not  unlike  a 
priestly  soutane.  Slowly  it  moved — now  stopping,  now  going 
on,  now  lost  in  dense  shadow,  now  distinct  in  the  brilliant 
light  of  the  moon. 

It  left  the  shrubbery  and  entered  the  Prior's  Walk.  Was  it 
the  prior's  ghost  taking  its  customary  midnight  airing,  and 
w&lling  its  ghostly  beads  under  the  monastic  oaks? 

No.  The  vivid  moonlight,  streaniing  full  on  the  lonely  fig- 
jrc,  its  head  turned  toward  tJie  v.ateher's  window,  showed  Miss 
Trevanion  the  handsome  face,  bronzed  and  bearded,  of  Mao- 
gregor,  the  tenant  of  the  Retreat. 

Sybil  drew  her  breath  agnin;  s^he  had  been  terribly  strrtled. 
Mr.  Macgrogor  wore  a  long,  loose,  picturesque-looking  cloak, 
and  a  broad-brimmed  Spanish  sombrero,  and  was  altogether 


ymo  worsF 


not  -mlike  &  bHffand  in  a  play,  or  a  sentimental  caraliar  cnme 
to  sing  his  midnight  serenade  under  his  lady's  lattice,  lie  did 
nothing  o!  the  kind,  however.  He  paced  briskly  up  and  down 
the  long,  leafy  aisle,  in  the  solemn  beauty  of  the  night,  for 
nearly  an  i.  ur. 

8yb»l  watched  him  through  it  all,  surprised,  curioug, 
amused.  Then  he  plunged  with  a  crash  into  the  fir  plantation 
and  disappeared. 

"  How  odd!'*  Sybil  thought,  languidly,  forgetting  all  about 
h<»r  cousin  in  this  new  sensation.  "  What  a  very  eccentric 
personage  this  Mr.  Macgregor  must  be.  But  then  authors  are 
all  eccentric,  I  believe.  I  shall  like  to  know  him,  1  fancy, 
..nd  I  must  read  his  books.  He  has  beon  a  i^rcat  traveler,  and 
is  wonderfully  clever,  I,  suppose.  Ho  has  the  face  for  it;  and 
I  hke  clever  men." 

The  ex-cavalry  colonel  and  the  eccentric  tenant  of  thj  Ke- 
treat  were  queerly  enough  mixed  up  in  M'ss  Trevaiion'a 
dreams  that  night.  She  awoke  from  one — a  most  vivid  vision 
— in  which  a  glistei  I'lg  black  snake,  with  the  wide,  velvet  eyes 
and  silken  smile  of  !\dith  Ingram,  was  about  to  spring  upon 
her  with  its  deadly  folds,  while  Cyril  stood  by  with  grimly 
folded  arms  and  gloomy  face.  She  struggled — she  strove  to 
cry  out — her  last  hope  was  gone,  when,  crashing  out  of  the 
fir-trees,  came  the  tall  Macgregor,  and  his  blackthorn  whirled 
through  the  air  and  came  down  like  the  stroke  of  doom  on  the 
hooded  serpent  head.  And  Cyril  slunk  moodily  away,  and 
the  handsome  tenant  of  the  Retreit  had  knelt  on  one  knee 
before  her  on  the  greensward,  his  kingly  brow  uncovered,  and 
said:  **  Look  at  m<?,  Sybil.  I  am—"  And  just  here,  a  sun- 
beam, darting  across  her  sealed  eyelids,  awoke  the  pretty 
dreamer,  who  started  up  in  bed,  laughing  and  blushing  at  her 
very  ill-regulated  dreams. 

"  How  absurd!  The  idea  of  my  dreaming  of  that  Mr.  Mac- 
gregor! Welj,  I  leave  x/Ionksvv'ood! — ah,  dear  old  Monlfswood! 
—to-day;  so  the  eccentric  author  and  his  nocturnal  rambles 
are  likely  to  trouble  mo  no  more.' ' 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IHr,  SPELL  OF  CIRCE. 

Cousiisr  C'YRIL  roce  over  from  Speckhaven  in  time  'or 
breakfast;  then  the  trio  started  in  the  pony-chaise  for  '^:e- 
ranion  Park,  Sybil  driving. 

**  Cut  along  through  the  west  gate,  Sybil,"  Charley  ob« 
served;  **  I've  a  word  to  say  to  Macgregor.** 


>» 


WHO  woniP 


tl 


Sybil  obeyed  The  tenant  of  the  Retreat  was  stretched 
lazily  beneath  a  big  branching  oak,  smooking  a  cheroot  and 
watching  the  vivid  azure  of  the  July  sky  as  seen  through  the 
glistening  foliage.  His  long,  lean  wolf-hound  lay  stretched 
oat  beside  him,  and  master  and  dog  made  a  very  striking  tab- 
ieau  set  in  vivid  green. 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,"  Charley  called,  "  Pve  a  message  from 
Sir  Rupert  ChUdleigh.  He  wants  you  to  dine  with  him  this 
evening,  and  give  him  the  benefit  of  your  views  on — hanged  if 
I  don't  forget  what!  I  strongly  recommend  you  to  be  punc- 
tual, and  give  >//e  your  opinion  of  his  old  Latour  claret  and  his- 
Lafitto  with  the  black  seal.  And,  oh!  Gwen  says  you're  to 
fetch  her  a  batch  of  French  novels,  and  finish  teaching  her 
all-fours.  She'd  come  to  you,  only  she's  afraid  it  wouldn't 
be  strictly  proper.  My  sister.  Miss  Trevanion — Mr.  Mac- 
gregor.  She  goes  in,  no  end,  for  authors  and  poets,  and  all 
such  small  deer,  so  I  expect  you'll  be  sworn  friends  directly." 

Mr.  Macgregoi  had  sprung  up,  and  stood  uncovered  before 
the  pretty  chatelaine.  He  bowed  low  at  Charley's  very  fre*"- 
pnd-easy  introduction. 

**  My  authorship  will  have  done  me  its  pleasantest  service 
if  it  induces  Miss  Trevanion  to  add  me  to  the  list  of  her 
friends,"  he  said,  with  a  Fmile  Sybil  liked — bright  and  clear 
as  the  sunshine  itself.  *'  I'll  attend  to  your  behests,  Charley, 
and  Miss  Chudleigh's  also.  Ah,  Colonel  Trevanion!  happy  to 
meet  you  ogain,  1  confess,'-  with  a  keen  glance.  "  I  should 
scarcely  have  recognized  you,  though.  You  have  changed  out 
of  all  knowledge  since  we  parted  last  in  Lima." 

Colonel  Trevanion  uttered  something  not  very  distinctly, 
and  looked  away  from  the  piercing  black  eyes  of  his  tenant. 

"  He  had  a  fever  out  in — what's  the  place,  colonel?  and 
lost  his  memory  altogether.  Don't  remember  anything  now," 
said  the  Etonian,  with  a  wink  of  intense  significance.  '*  Con- 
venient sort  of  fever  to  catch,  eh,  Macgregor?  Sybil,  don't 
stare  so — it's  rude.     You'll  make  Macgregor  blush. ^' 

For  Sybil  was  staring  quite  wildly  at  the  tenant  of  the  Ee- 
treat.  At  her  brother's  remark  ifhe  blushed  red  as  a  sunset 
sky,  whib  Mr.  Macgregor  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"  I  resemble  some  one  Miss  Trevanion  has  met  before,  per* 
haps,'*'  he  said,  with  a  glance  from  the  splendid  dark  eyes  that 
thnlled  the  gii-1  strangei}-,     "  1  wibh  you  good-morning." 

He  stood  bareheaded"  until  the  cn-riage  disappeared,  and 
still  Sybil  wore  that  startled  face.  Suddenly  she  tui'ned  upoa 
tliid  oolcuel. 


M 


WHO  wursf 


\^- 


**  Cousin  Cyril,  do  you  know  you  very  sfcrongly  reiexnbll 
that  man?" 

*'WhatI  Macffregor?    Jyio— surely  not. " 

"  But  you  del  excitedly.  **  It  is  tftat  made  me  stare  to. 
How  Tory  rude  you  are,  Charleyi  to  draw  attention  to  it  u 
you  did." 

"  JSTot  half  so  rude  as  yourself,"  retorted  the  Etonian.  "  If 
Maogregor  had  been  the  Pig-headed  Lady,  you  couldn't  have 
looked  him  out  of  countenance  more.  If  you  had  gazed  much 
longer,  he  might  have  thought  you  were  falling  m  love  with 
him,  and  taking  his  photograph  in  your  mind's  eye." 

"Nonsense!  but  the  resemblance — don't  you  see  it.  Char* 
ley?" 

*'  Can't  say  I  do.  Macgrcgor's  much  the  better-looking 
man  of  the  two,  if  you'll  permit  me  to  say  so,  colonel.  Botn 
are  black  as  the — don't  look  alarmed,  S}'bil,  I  won't  mention 
him — but  Colonel  TrevQ,nion's  general  expression  of  counte- 
nance says  '  Go  to  the  devil!'  as  plainly  as  words,  while  Mac- 
fregor*s  rather  a  pleasant-looking  fellow,  on  the  whole.  I 
ope  you  don't  object  to  plain  speaking,  mv  dear  Trevanion?" 
turning  with  charming  frankness  to  the  Inuian  otticer;  **  it's 
a  way  I  have." 

"  So  I  perceive/'  answered  Colonel  Trevanion,  with  a  frigid 
face;  **  and  a  most  disagreeable  way,  I  should  imagine,  your 
acquaintances  find  it." 

**  And  Charley,  like  most  other  people  who  plume  them- 
eelves  upon  their  *  plain  speaking,'  will  take  plain  speaking 
from  no  one  else,"  said  Sybjl,  in  mighly  displeasure.  "  Thoce 
Eton  boys  have  become  a  by- word  tor  their  impertinence.  So 
the  tenant  of  the  Ketrcat  visits  at  Sir  Rupert  Chudleigh's?" 

**  Quite  intimate  there,"  responded  her  brother,  in  nowise 

Juenched;  *' and  very  jolly  feeds  the  old  baronet  gives.  His 
jafitte  is  nectar  for  the  gods,  and  his  Chambertin  and  Mar- 
laschino  something  to  bo  dreamed  of  in  one's  visions  of  Para- 
idise,  Owen's  the  only  drawback,  with  her  flaming  dresses, 
and  her  loud  style  generally;  but  Macgregor,  who  is  next  door 
to  an  angel  as  to  temper,  finds  even  /ler  endurable.  And  he 
and  the  old  cock — beg  pardon  for  the  slang,  Svbil;  mean  Kir 
Eupert,  of  course — argue  about  no  end  of  philosophical  and 
metaphysical  things,  till  all's  blue,  and  the  baronet  loses  his 
temper  and  gets  badly  floored.  Then  they  go  to  ^cartit  and 
Macgregor  beats  him  at  thul,  b?-  1  they  part  deadly  enemies— 
nntil  next  time." 

*'  Your  Macgregor  appears  to  be  a  sort  of  Admh'able  Crich- 
toa,"  said  his  sister.    ^*  Pray,  how  long  has  he  b«^  in  thew 


WHO    WUBW* 


parts  to  strike  up  such  an  intimacv  with  so  rery  exclnsiye  a 
gentleman  as  Sir  Kupert?    Or  did  they  Icnow  eacn  other  long 

•go?" 

**  Never  set  eyes  on  each  other  until  about  a  month  ago," 
Charley  said.  "  Macgregor  camo  down  to  Speckhaven 
straight  from  Suabia,  wheru,  as  I  told  you  before,  he  had  been 
pig-Bticking  and  boar-hunting,  and  writing  jolly  bookg.  He 
and  the  baronet  '  met  by  chance,  the  usual  way.  Sir  Rupert 
got  hold  of  his  work  on  Central  Africa,  and  his  '  Tour  Among 
Volcanoes ' — South  American  tiavels,  you  know;  got  im- 
mensely delighted  with  them,  and  called  u])on  the  *  talented 
author '  immediately.  As  for  liking  him,  once  you  know  him^ 
that*.<  simply  a  matter  of  course.  J  like  him,"  added  tha 
Etonian,  superbly;  "  and  1  can  say  no  more." 

'*  No,"  said  Colonel  Trevanion,  with  withering  Earcasm^ 
**  I  should  say  not.  Thut  comprises  everything.  Undue 
charity  toward  your  species  is  not  one  of  your  weaknesses,  I. 
fancy." 

(Charley  eyed  him  askance. 

'*  Weaknesses  I  have  nonf^-,  colonel.  Fools  I  despise,  an^; 
knaves  J  abhor.  And  I  believe  it  is  a  generally  admitted  tru» 
ism  that  mankind  is  divided  into  these  two  classes.     Mac^ 

fregor  maij  be  a  knave — I  haven't  coundcd  him  to  his  lowest- 
epths  yet;   but  ho  certainly  is  no  fool.     And  of  the  two,  L 
prefer  the  knaves." 

There  was  that  in  the  easy  insolence  of  the  lad's  tone  that 
said,  as  plainly  as  though  ho  had  spoken,  "And  i/cni  belong 
to  the  fools."  But  they  were  at  the  house  by  this  time,  tO' 
Sybil's  intense  relief;  and  my  lady,  who  hud  got  wind  in  some 
vay  of  the  new  arrival,  was  at  the  door  to  receive  and  welcome 
them. 

Mrs.  Ingram  was  nowhere  visible  when  the  family  party 
entered  the  drawing-room;  but  ten  minutes  later  her  silvery 
voice  was  heard  humming  a  "*  Traviata  "  air,  and  she  came  in 
through  a  glass  door  laden  with  a  basket  of  dewy  roses. 

Very  pretty  she  looked,  very  youthful,  very  fre^h,  the 
bloom,  that  was  not  all  rouge,  at  its  brightest  on  her  oval 
cheeks,  and  the  great,  velvety  eyes  looking  longer  and  darker 
for  the  artful  circles  about  them. 

Her  girlish  robe  of  white  muslin  fluttered  in  the  light  July 
breeze:  pink  ribbons  and  blush  roses  lighted  her  up,  and  atl 
the  rich  black  hair  hung  loose,  half  curls,  half  ripples,  over 
the  bare,  plump  shoulders. 

Sbo  looked  like  one  of  Greuze'e  melting  beauties  stepped 
oat  of  its  frame. 


i 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


73  WfST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSiCR.N.Y.  14SM 

(716)  872-4503 


'ii,^ 


14 


WHO  wxire  r 


She  stood  in  the  door-way  an  instant — an  exqnfsfte  tablean 
-—with  her  roses  and  her  ribbons,  glancing  from  one  face  to 
the  other.  Cyril  Trevanion,  sitting  talking  to  Lady  Lemox, 
his  face  partly  averted,  was  the  last  she  saw. 

As  he  turned  round  and  their  eyes  met,  the  bright  color 
faded  from  the  rounded  cheeks  and  a  dull,  leaden  whiteness 
passed  from  brow  to  chin.  She  stood  quite  still,  cold  a:id 
pale,  gazing  at  him  with  wild,  wide  e^-es. 

**  Sweets  to  the  sweet!"  Charley  said,  taking  her  basket  of 
roses  out  of  her  resistless  hand.  "  How  you  do  stare,  Mrs. 
Ingram  I  You  are  almost  as  bad  as  Sybil  half  an  hour  ago. 
Is  Colonel  Trevanion  Medusa's  head,  and  is  he  turning  you  to 
stone?  Come,  and  let  me  present  him.  It  may  break  the 
fatal  spell." 

He  led  her  forward,  still  resistless.  Some  sudden  inward 
panic  seemed  to  palsy  every  sense. 

Sybil  looked  at  her  in  wonder,  then  suspiciously  at  her  com- 
panion; but  the  colonel's  impassi/e  face  was  as  impassive  as 
ever,  his  deep-set  eyes  expressive  o-!  no  surprise,  of  no  recogni- 
tion, of  no.hnig  but  great  and  sudden  admiration. 

She  had  arisen  before  him  so  unexpectedly — she  was  so  brill- 
iantly pretty,  so  fair,  so  sweet — that  the  eyes  that  had  looked 
calmly  enough  on  Sybil  Trevanioii's  beautiful  face  grew  all 
alight  with  admiration  of  this  gay  little  vision. 

Mrs.  Ingram  drew  a  long  breath,  it  might  be  of  relief,  and 
gave  Colonel  Trevanion  one  little  dimpled  palm.  The  color 
came  slowly  back  to  her  cheeks,  the  startled  look  left  hor 
eyes.  She  sat*down  by  Charley,  laughing  and  chatting  in  her 
gashing,  girlish  way,  and  listened  to  his  off-hand  compliments 
and  free-and-easy  love-making  with  laughing  good  humor. 

But  all  the  while  there  was  a  puzzled  expression  in  her  face, 
all  the  while  she  kept  up  a  furtive,  ceaseless  watch  upon  Cyril 
Trevanion,  pausing  in  the  midst  of  her  gay  repartees  to  listen 
while  he  spoke,  to  note  his  every  movement.. 

Gradually  she  turned  from  Charley  to  him,  asking  adroit 
questions  about  India,  and  Russia,  and  South  America,  and 
receiving  the  briefest  and  least  satisfactory  of  answers. 

There  was  a  strange  smile  curving  her  pretty  lips,  a  tri- 
umphant glitter  in  her  eyes,  when  at  length  she  quitted  the 
drawing-room  and  ascended  to  her  own  apartment. 

The  party  at  Trevanion  Park  met  at  luncheon,  and  again 
*the  widow  renewed  her  artful  wiles,  again  to  be  baffled  by  the 
steady  reticence  of  the  hero  of  Balaklava. 

**  new  very  unkind  Colonel  Trevanion  is!*'  she  said,  makr 
ing  a  witching  gestai'e^  and  in  a  very  audible  '*  aside  "  to 


wno  wnrs? 


Charley.  "  He  knows  we  are  literally  dying  to  hear  of  his 
adventures  among  the  Turks  and  the  turbans,  the  houi'is  and 
the  hashish-eaters,  the  awful  fanatics  of  Central  Asia,  and  the 
ions  and  gorillas  and  things  of  Central  Africa,  and  he  won't 
toll  us  a  word  The  Times  chronicles  his  wonderful  exploits 
under  the  Indian  suns  and  amid  the  Crimean  snows,  but  not  a 
word  says  he.  And  of  Spanish  America,  with  its  earthquakes, 
and  insurrections,  and  volcanoes,  and  dark-eyed  donnas,  he  is 
mutest  of  all.  Colonel  Trevanion  is  a  hero,  beyond  doubtj 
but  he  shows  no  mercy  to  the  curious.'* 

"  I  never  did  care  to  chronicle  my  exploits  upon  the  house* 
tops,  Mrs.  Ingram,'*  Colonel  Trevanion  answered,  "  or  make 
a  howling  about  them  at  the  street  corners.  I  can  not  oven 
turn  them  to  account,  in  the  way  of  pounds  and  shillings,  by 
elaborating  them  in  books,  drawing  on  my  imagination  for  my 
facts  when  the  real  thing  falls  short." 

He  finished  with  a  withering  glance  at  Charley.  That 
placid  youth  met  it  with  a  front  unmoved. 

**  No,"  he  said,  **  your  worst  enemy  will  never  accuse  you, 
my  dear  colonel,  of  the  crime  of  writing  books.  That's  a 
back-handed  hit  at  Macgregor,  isn't  it?  Don't  be  too  hard 
on  that  poor  fellow,  colonel.  He  doesnH  chronicle  having 
saved  your  life,  remember.  Apropos  of  Macgregor,  Mrs.  In- 
gram, you'll  be  charmed  with  him,  and  he  with  you;  but  that* a 
a  matter  of  course.  And  being  a  constant  visitor  at  Sir  Ru- 
pert Chudleigh's,  you're  likely  to  see  a  good  deal  of  each  other. 
As  you  are  strong,  dearest  madame,  be  merciful  in  this  case. 
Don*t  break  his  heart  as  ruthlessly  as  you  have  broken  mine— 
I'm  used  to  it,  and  can  stand  it;  but,  like  measles,  it  goes 
hard  with  your  man  of  five-and-thirty.  And  as  I've  honored 
him  with  my  especial  esteem,  I  don't  want  his  hairs  brought 
with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  for  a  year  or  two,  at  least." 

Mfs.  Ingram  laughed,  and  again  she  and  Charley  went  at  it 
full  tilt,  with  lance  and  spear.  Colonel  Trevanion  listened 
and  looked,  with  the  face  of  a  man  bewitched;  and  Sybil,  after 
vainly  endeavoring  to  draw  his  attention,  turned  away  at 
length,  with  a  scornful  glitter  in  the  haughty  eyes,  and  a  dis- 
dainful curl  of  the  superb  Up. 

Luncheon  over,  Mrs.  Ingram'  went  back  to  the  rosery  with 
her  dainty  little  basket;  Sybil  sat  down  to  the  piano;  Lady 
Lemox  took  the  latest  novel,  and  Charley  curled  himself  up 
iu  a  dormouse  and  drifted  gently  into  the  **  lovely  land  of 
dreams."  Colonel  Trevanion  lingered  for  a  little  beside  the 
im  piADiste«  bat  his  eyes  wandered  ever  through  the  oj>as 


90 


WHO  was? 


glass  door  to  a  fairy  figure  in  white  flitting  airily  aooui;  amung 

the  rose-trees. 

He  was  so  absent,  so  distrait,  answering  so  at  random,  that 
Miss  Trevaniou  took  compassion  upon  him  at  last. 

**She  looks  like  Love  among  the  roses,  does  she  not, 
Cousin  Cyril?"  with  a  slight  laugh.  "  Pray,  don't  let  me 
detain  you;  join  Mrs.  Ingram,  by  all  means.  I'm  going  to 
practice  this  fugue  of  Bach's,  and  you  won't  care  to  listen,  I 
Know.     Seel  she  smiles  an  invitation." 

And  then  the  white  hands  swept  over  the  keys  in  a  storm  of 
sound  that  drowned  the  Indian  officer's  reply,  if  he  made  any. 
A  moment  later,  and  his  tall  figure  was  out  beside  the  white 
fairy,  helping  gather  the  roses,  his  face  all  alight,  while  he 
listened  to  her  pretty  prattle  and  her  sweet  laugh. 

Miss  Trevanion  spent  four  hours  at  the  piano;  then  she 
went  up  to  her  room  to  dress  for  dinner.  From  her  window 
she  could  see  the  widow  and  her  victim,  still  busy  in  the  July 
sunshine  amid  the  roses  and  myrtles  and  azaleas,  forgetful, 
apparently^  of  all  the  world  but  themselves. 

**  And  that  is  Cyril  Trevanion— the  hero  of  my  life!"  the 
young  girl  thought,  a  bitter  pang  of  wounded  pride  at  her 
heart.  "  Come  home,  after  all  those  years,  to  be  infatuated 
at  first  sight  by  the  pretty,  painted  face  of  Edith  Ingram  I 
His  father's  fate  is  nothing  to  him,  1  am  less  than  nothing, 
and  she  bewitches  him  in  half  an  hour,  as  though  he  were  a 
weak-witted  boy  of  sixteen.  Well,  let  him  go!  The  man  who 
can  stoop  to  love  that  woman  is  not  worth  one  regret  from 
me!" 

She  turned  bravely  away  to  her  toilet,  but  the  keen  pain 
was  at  her  heart  still.  It  toas  hard  to  giva  up  her  ideal  like 
this — to  despise  her  hero,  her  king — to  see  ih.Q  last  of  the 
Trevanions  twice  fooled — twice  netted  by  two  artful  women. 

"  There  was  some  excuse  for  him  at  nineteen."  she  thought, 
bitterly;  "  there  is  none  at  four-and-thirty."  i 

The  widow  was  quite  gorgeous  at  dinner — shining  like  a 
itar.  She  had  not  even  made  a  show  of  mourning  for  the 
general.  Black  did  not  become  her,  an^  why  should  she  make 
a  fright  of  herself  to  please  a  young  lady  who  was  above  being 
pleased  by  any  effort  of  hers?  She  wore  to-day  a  robe  of  wine- 
colored  silk,  that  gleamed  anH  twisted  about  her  like  a  fiery 
serpent;  and  there  were  blood-red  blossoms  in  her  midnight 
hair,  and  a  half -shattered  rose  in  her  bosom;  and  fts  perfum- 
ing petals  drifted  into  the  colonel's  face  while  she  talked  to 
him.  Sybil's  clear  eyes  looked  at  her  across  the  table — Sybil, 
^  het  deep  black — ^high-necked,  long-sleeved^  devoid  o£  omA" 


WHO   Wl»Bf 


07- 


ment — a  nun,  from  the  austere  cloisters  of  St.  Clare,  could 
not  have  taken  exception  to  that  toilet.  And  yet  the  delicate^, 
high-bred  face,  with  its  pure  patrician  loveliness,  its  shining, 
soulful  eyes,  its  sweet,  proud  lips,  was  a  hundred-fold  more 
beautiful  than  that  other. 

And  the  siren  wove  her  rose-chains,  and  wreathed  her  gilded 
fetters.  And  the  hero-  of  Balaklava  bent  his  neck  for  the 
shining  chains,  and  held  out  his  hands  for  the  flowery  hand- 
cuffs. She  nung  for  him  after  dinner,  in  her  delicious  mttzzo* 
/soprano — fiery  little  Spanish  ballads,  mistily  tender  German 
chants,  impassioned  Italian  love-songs.  And  the  circean 
smiles  were  rosy,  and  the  flashing  glances  bright,  and  the  en% 
trancing  laugh  at  its  softest  and  sweetest,  and  the  new  Delilah 
was  driving  her  Samson  mad  and  blind  with  the  delicious  fever 
men  call  love. 

**  Clearest  case  of  spoons  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,"  observed 
Charley,  soito  voce,  to  his  sister.  *'  He's  dead  and  done  for 
this  bout.  Oh,  my  poor  little  Sybil!  After  all  the  ammuni- 
tion 3'Ou've  wasted,  the  dreams  you've  dreamed,  the  hopes 
you've  hoped,  to  think  that  the  little  Ingram  should  havo 
Deaten  you  sky  high  at  the  first  heat!  He  was  a  fool  at  nine- 
teen, and  he's  the  most  out-and-out  fool  in  the  three  kingdoms 
at  four-and-thirty." 

Mrs.  Ingram  and  Colonel  Trevanion  shook  hands  affection- 
ately that  night  at  partmg;  but  Miss  Trevanion,  very  pale  in 
the  glare  of  the  wax-lights,  said  her  eood-night  very  oriefly 
and  coldly,  and  swept  past  them  botn.  And  the  returned 
chieftain  went  to  bed  to  dream  of  his  Circe;  and  Circe  herself, 
the  wine-colored  silk  flung  aside,  and  a  loose  wrapper  donned, 
walked  long  hours  up  and  down  her  room,  thinking — thiuk«< 

ing. 

**  Who  is  he?"  she  said  to  herself;  "  who  is  he?--this  man 
who  claims  to  be  Cyril  Trevanion — who  looks  like  Cyril  Tre- 
vanion, and  who  is  not  Cyril  Trevanion?  He  does  not  recog- 
nize me — that  is  proof  in  itself.  There  is  that  story  ot  the 
Chilian  fever,  the  loss  of  memory;  but — ah,  bah!  who  believes 
that  f  Who  is  he — who  is  he?  My  lady  believes  in  him.  La 
Princesse  believes  in  him,  and  is  sorely  disappointed,  poor 
thing!  Charley  believes  in  him,  and  '  writes  him  down  an 
ass.'  He's  not  Cyril  Trevanion,  and  before  I'm  a  mouth  older 
rU  know  who  he  really  is  I* 


'^i 


-•>.". 


wxo  WXXlf 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

THE  TENANT  OP  THE  RETREAT. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  the  family  at  Trevanloa 
Park  drove  over  to  Speckhaven,  through  the  golden  glory  of 
the  July  morning,  to  church. 

Lady  Lemox  and  Miss  Trevanion  sat  beside  each  other  in 
the  great  cushioned  and  curtained  pew  of  the  Trevanions.  And 
Mrs.  Ingram,  in  the  most  delicious  little  bonnet  that  ever  the 
fertile  brain  of  a  Parisian  'modiste  imagined,  the  pretty  face 
sweetly  serious,  the  summery  toilet  faultless,  sat  beside  that 
hero  of  a  hundred  fights,  Colonel  Cyril  Trevanion.  And  if 
the  gallant  colonel's  eyes  wandered  away  from  the  vested  min- 
isters, the  swinging  censers,  the  wax-lights  and  the  roses,  who 
can  blame  him? 

They  drove  home  to  luncheon,  and  still  that  very  pro- 
nounced flirtation  went  on.  Sybil  Trevanion  took  very  little 
notice  of  them  now.  She  was  sorry,  pained,  hurt,  disappoint- 
ed; but  she  was  not  her  cousin's  keeper.  He  must  "gang 
his  ain  gait "  to  the  end. 

"  Look  at  him!'*  Lady  Lemox  cried  in  vindictive  triumph; 
**  look  at  your  cousin  Cyril,  Sybil  I  Even  he  can  not  resist  the 
fascinations  of  Mrs.  Ingram.  You  are  the  only  creature  alive 
that  dislikes  her,  and  it  proves  what  a  prejudiced  and  unjust 
girl  you  are." 

"Perhaps  so,  mamma,"  Sybil  answered,  a  little  wearily; 
**  but  I  have  done  my  best,  and  I  can  not  like  her,  I  can  7wt 
trust  her.  I  have  done  her  no  harm,  at  least.  She  wiU  be  as 
well  off  at  Sir  Eupert  Chudleigh's  as  here." 

"  She  will,  no  doubt;  but  1 — oh,  what  is  to  become  of  me, 
you  cruel,  selfish,  unkind  creature!  No  one  ever  suited  me  as 
she  does,  and  for  that  very  reason  you  send  her  away.  If  it 
were  not  that  you  had  made  up  your  mind  about  it  before 
Colonel  Trevanion  came,  I  would  say  it  was  all  your  jealousy, 
and  nothing  else." 

**  Then  you  would  say  very  wrong,  Lady  Lemox,"  Miss 
Trevanion  answered,  throwing  back  her  head,  the  violet  eyes 
beginning  to  lighten.  "  I  am  not  in  the  least  jealous  of  your 
pet.  Colonel  Trevanion  is  infatuated,  that  is  clear  enough; 
Dut  Edith  Ingram  is  wise  in  her  generation — she  would  not 
marry  the  impoverished  heir  of  Monkswood,  if  he  were  at  har 
U%t  to-morrow." 


WHO  wiiro 


d9 


<•  Indeed!"  with  a  sneer.  "  You  appear  to  know  all  about 
It,    Why,  then,  does  she  encourage  him?" 

"  Why  do  naturalists  impale  butterflies  and  beetles?  For 
their  own  satisfaction.  The  butterflies  and  beetles  may  die, 
but  what  does  that  signify?  The  naturalist  has  had  all  he 
wants.  Mrs.  Ingram  flirts  with  Charley  as  she  would  flirt 
ffith  one  of  the  stable  boys  yonder,  if  no  better  game  ofl'ered, 
for  the  innate  pleasure'  of  flirting.  She  won't  marry  Cyril 
Trevanion,  since  1  hold  Cyril  Trevanian's  fortune;  but  she'll 
fool  him  to  the  top  of  his  bent.  She'll  marry  Sir  Rupert 
Chudleigh,  I  dare  say,  if  he  gives  her  the  chance,  and  then — 
Heaven  help  poor  Gvven!  We  won't  talk  about  it,  mamma, 
if  you  please.     I  am  heartily  tired  of  the  subject." 

She  leaned  against  the  window,  with  a  low,  weary  sigh, 
playing  idly  with  the  ivy  sprays;  and  by  the  strangest  of  all 
strange  wanderings,  her  thoughts  went  ofT  at  a  tangent  to  the 
tenant  of  the  Retreat.  Was  lie  happy?  Sybil  wondered.  Hia 
tastes  appeared  to  be  simple  enough;  he  dwelt  in  a  sort  of 
bower  of  roses,  with  his  two  servants  and  his  long,  lean  Livon- 
ian,  and  he  wrote  charming  books,  and  was  famous.  Was  he 
happy?  He  had  wonderful  eyes  and  a  massive,  powerfid 
brow,  and  his  grave,  handsome,  composed  face  told  you  little; 
but  he  was  a  lonely  wanderer  over  the  world,  for  all  that — 
friendless  and  houseless  very  likely,  or  he  would  hardly  be  • 
hero.  And,  somehow,  there  was  that  in  his  great,  dark  eyes, 
in  the  stern,  set  mouth,  that  gave  this  dreaming  girl  a  strong 
idea  of  hidden  trouble. 

The  sunny  summer  moraing  ended  in  a  pouring  afternoon. 
There  was  no  more  church-goin?.  Mrs.  Ingram  seated  herself 
at  the  parlor-organ  and  played  Mozart  and  dreamy  improvisa- 
tions of  her  own,  with  the  Russian  hero  by  her  side,  and 
Charley  asleep  near,  under  the  soporific  influence  of  her  sol- 
emn-sweet melodies.  And  Sybil  got  hold  of  Mr.  Macgregor's 
book,  "  Among  the  Turbans;  or.  Through  the  Land  of  tho 
Sun,"  a  fanciful  title  enough  for  a  volume  of  travels.  But 
the  book  was  altogether  bewitching — its  style  perfect,  its  dic- 
tion faultless,  full  of  laughable  stories,  racy  anecdotes,  pathetic 
touches,  and  "  hair-breadth  'scapes."  The  girl  was  enchant- 
ed; she  read  and  read,  while  the  rainy  afternoon  wore  away, 
and  stranied  her  eyes  to  finish  by  the  last  expiring  glimmer  of 
daylight.  She  laid  it  down  with  a  sort  of  regret.  Like  Sam 
Weller's  immortal  valentine,  there  was  just  enough  to  maka 
you  wish  there  was  more. 

'^  How  charming  it  is!  How  clever  he  must  be!  And  yit 
thara  is  Qn$  thing  I  dislike  in  it—  the  bitter  way  he  speaka  of 


V 


51 


100 


WHO    WIN8f 


women.  He  is  sarcastic,  almost  cynical,  whenever  they  ero  In 
question,  whether  it  is  the  veiled  wives  of  the  Faithful,  the 
brilliant  belles  of  Paris,  or  the  dusky  damsels  of  Kaffer  land. 
He  holds  all  womankind  at  the  same  cheap  rate,  no  doubt." 

**  Have  you  any  more  of  Mr.  Macgregor's  books,  Charley?" 
Sybil  asked  her  brother,  after  dinner,  in  the  drawing-room 
**  I  like  his  *  Among  the  Turbans '  extremely.*' 

Charley  threw  her  a  slender  volume,  gold  and  azure — poems, 
you  knew,  at  first  glance. 

**  There  you  are — *  A  Wanderer's  Dreams.'  Pretty  little 
idyls — sweet  as  sugar-candy.  You're  safe  to  go  into  ecstasies 
over  it,  Sybil.  It's  full  of  the  most  melodious  abuse  of  the 
female  sex.  Baronesses  and  ballet-dancers,  duchesses  and 
danseuses,  he  tars  them  all  with  the  same  stick.  I  suspect 
Macgregor's  like  the  rest  of  us — been  jilted  in  the  past  tense, 
and  turns  cynic  in  the  present.  He's  stunningly  clever,  and 
just  the  sort  of  fellow  I'd  make  a  dead  set  at,  if  I  were  a 
woman." 

Mrs.  Ingram  rose  from  the  piano,  with  a  light  laugh,  her 
silken  robe  flashing  in  the  la^ip-light. 

**  Pray  don't,  Charley— don't  make  us  fall  in  love  with  your 
literary  lion  before  we  even  see  him.  But  I  forgot;  you  have 
seen  him,  dear  Miss  Trevanion.  Pray  tell  me  if  the  man  is  as 
irresistible  as  his  book." 

**  I  will  leave  you  to  form  your  own  opinion,  Mrs.  Ingram," 
Sybil  answered,  with  that  involuntary  lunitevr  with  which  she 
always  addressed  the  widow.  "  You  are  likely  soon  to  see  more 
of  him  than  I  do." 

And  then  Miss  Trevanion  opened  the  "Wanderer's 
Dreams,"  and  presently  forgot  everything — Mrs.  Ingram  and 
the  slave  at  her  chariot-wheels  included — in  the  music  of  those 
dreamy,  delicious  verses. 

Next  morning  the  widow  departed,  and  she  and  Lady  Lemoz 
made  the  most  of  their  adieus.  It  was  really  pathetic,  that 
parting  scene — lace  handkerchiefs  and  smelling-cottles  floui> 
ished,  and  touching  tears  flowed. 

Colonel  Trevanion  locked  on  sympathizingly;  Charley,  like 
the  heartless  little  monster  he  was,  enjoyed  the  whole  thing 
hugely;  and  poor  Sybil,  feeling  very  much  like  a  female  Nero, 
dooming  hapless  victims  to  the  stake,  seized  her  hat  and  znado 
her  escape. 

Mrs,  Ingram  departed,  and  Lai?  Lemox,  in  a  fit  of  6iilk§, 
i:e^t  her  chamber  all  day,  and  made  the  life  of  her  French, 
maid  a  misery  to  her.    And  late  lu  the  afternoon  came  gallop* 


WHO  wnrsf 


101 


ing  over  Km  Gwendoline  Chudleigh,  in  a  high  state  of  ezdte-^ 
ment  and  indijtjnaLion. 

"She's  commenned  nlreadyl'*  burst  out  the  baronet's 
daughter,  *'  she's  beginning  to  '  form  '  me  before  she's  prop- 
erly in  the  house.  My  music  has  been  shamefully  neglectea; 
my  fingering  is  atrocious;  I  shake  my  elbows  and  joggle  my 
wrists;  and  the  *  Fisher's  Hornpipe  '  is  only  to  be  endured  by 
persons  lost  to  all  morality  I  My  French  accent  sots  her  nerves 
on  edge,  and  Fm  to  go  through  a  course  of  '  Le  Brun's  T61e- 
maque  '  and  *  Noel  et  Chapsel '  at  once.  And  Fm  to  be  peiv 
secuted  through  all  the  '  nometries  *  and  '  ologies '  there  are, 
and  get  the  Norman  Heptarchy  and  all  the  kings  of  France, 
from  Clovis  I.  to  Napoleon  III.,  by  heart.  And  Fm  to  walic 
and  talk  by  line  and  plummet,  and  simper  and  dip  as  she  does, 
and  become  an  object  before  high  heaven.  But  I  won't!'* 
cried  Gwendoline,  glaring  viciously  into  space,  and  clinching 
one  little  chubby  list  '*  FU  see  Mrs.  Ingram  boiled  alive 
first!" 

"  It's  a  harrowing  case,  certainly,"  laughed  Sybil;  **  but  if 
Sir  Rupert  and  Mrs.  Ingram  league  against  you,  I  greatly  fear 
you'll  be  vanquished.  And  then,  you  know,  my  darling 
Gwen,  you  do  want  a  little  forming;  and  all  these  young  subs 
frnm  the  Speckhaven  mess-room  are  not  just  the  most  desira- 
ble tutors  for  a  young  lady  of  sixteen.  But,  hush!  here  is 
Colonel  Trevanion.  Don't  abuse  Mrs.  Ingram  before  A /wi.  I 
fancy  he  rather  admires  her." 

"1  dare  say  he  does,"  responded  Miss  Chudleigh,  sulkily. 
**  So  does  papa;  and  they're  both  donkeys  for  their  painsi  I 
don't  care,  Sybil;  I'll  say  it  again:  they're  donkeys  to  let  that 
painted,  artificial,  simpering  widow  bewitch  'em  I    For  she  is 

fainted.  Didn't  I  see  the  pink  stains  on  the  towels  already? 
t  must  have  been  a  happy  release  for  Ingram — whoever  he 
was — when  the  Lord  took  him.  He's  as  solemn  as  Minerva 
and  her  owl,  this  black-a-vised  cousin  of  yours,  Sybil;  but  I 
dare  say  she  can  wind  him  round  her  little  finger.  I  know  she 
can  papa,  and  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world  he's  as  stiff  and  un- 
changeable as  the  laws  of  what-you-may-call-'em — Swedes  and 
Prussians.  I  only  hope  she  won't  fascinate  Mr.  Macgregor, 
because  I  like  Macgregor  ever  so,  and  I  want  to  marry  him 
myself  in  a  year  or  two." 

'*  Indeed  I"  laughed  Miss  Trevanion.  "  You  compliment  my 
cousin's  tenant  highl}'.  Is  Mr.  Macgregor  aware  of  youp 
strictly  honorable  intentions?" 

"  I  haven't  mentioned  'em  yet,"  said  Gwendoline.  **  J-'ve 
h^m  waitmg  to  see  how  he  takes  you.    My  prophetic  boqI—* 


101 


WHO    WIKSf 


im't  that  how  they  put  it  m  the  novelsP—warns  me  that  my 
cake  is  dough  once  he  meets  La  Priiicesse.  He's  handsome 
and  he's  clever  and  he's  famous,  and  he's  been  over  every  get- 
at-able  corner  of  the  globe,  and  ho  talks  like  a  bock — ever  so 
much  better  than  lots  of  books  I  know— and  he's  a  dead  shot 
and  a  crack  rider,  and  all  at  homo  with  the  gloves  or  the—'* 

But  Sybil  covered  the  rosy  lips  with  two  taper  fingers. 

*'  Have  a  Uttle  mercy,  Gwendoline!  Don't  chant  the  litany 
of  Saint  Angus  Macgregor  any  longer  I  He's  but  one  remove 
from  an  angel,  no  doubt,  and  I  hate  your  angelic  men.  He 
looks  big  enough  and  strong  enough  for  anything;  but  the 
days  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  are  gone.  We  don't  fall  down 
and  adore  men  for  their  jjbyslcal  might  noiu,  I  don't  want 
your  big  Snotchman,  my  deart'st  Gwen;  so  propose,  and  wel- 
come, as  soon  as  you  like.  Only  make  sure,  first,  he  hasn't 
left  a  harem  away  in  Stamboul.  There  is  no  trusting  these 
great  travelers." 

**  And  here  comes  another  of  'em,"  said  Gwendoline,  eying 
Colonel  Trevanion,  as  he  came  slowly  up,  with  no  great  favor. 
"  He's  the  color  of  mahogany,  and  as  dismal  to  look  at  as  the 
Knight  of  the  Woful  Countenance.  Don't  you  marry  hiniy 
Sybil,  for  pity's  sake!  That  grim  visage  across  the  breakfast- 
table  would  make  you  strychnme  yourself  before  the  end  of  the 
honey-moon." 

The  colonel  reached  them,  and  received  a  due  presentation 
to  the  rosy  heiress  of  Chudieigh  Chase,  bnt  ho  hardly  noticed 
her  or  her  brief  nod  of  acknowledgment  before  he  turned  to 
his  cousin. 

"  Reed  worth  tells  me  there  are  some  repairs  necessary  at  the 
Retreat,  Sybil,"  he  said.  "  The  chimneys  smoke,  and  the 
upper  chambers  leak,  and  the  stair-ways  are  decaying.  As 
you  are  walking,  suppose  you  walk  in  that  direction?  I  must 
see  about  it,  and  I  don't  want  the  medisBvalism  of  the  old 
place  spoiled." 

**  Yes,  (Sybil,"  cut  in  Gwendoline,  "  come.  Mr.  Macgregor 
has  promised  me  Alfred  de  Musset,  and  1  suppose  even  Mrs. 
Ingram,  prudish  as  she  is,"  with  a  spiteful,  sidelong  glance  at 
the  colonel,  '*  couldn't  object  to  my  calling  on  a  solitary  gen- 
tleman, with  you  along,  to  play  propriety.  And,  then,  I'm 
dying  to  see  what  sort  of  a  muddle  he  lives  in.  A  bachelor's 
manage  is  always  in  a  muddle,  isn't  it.  Colonel  Trevanion?" 

But  Colonel  Trevanion  did  not  answer.  They  were  crossing 
some  fields  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  Monkswood,  and  the 
Indian  officer  was  looking  before  him  with,  for  a  hero,  rather 
a  startled  expressior  of  countenance.    Sybil  foUowed  lus  |[az^ 


WBO  wrraf 


106 


aDd  turned  pale;  Gwendoline  looked,  and  tittered  a  shriek. 
For  there,  straight  in  their  path,  between  them  and  the  bound- 
ary wall,  stood  a  huge  white  bull,  with  every  hair  and  every 
horn  bristling  wilh  tiery  rage.  The  scarlet  feather  in  Misg 
Chudleigh's  pork-pie  hat,  and  the  scarlet  sash  she  wore  pict- 
uresquely over  her  shoulder  and  knotted  under  her  arm,  had 
caugnt  his  bullship's  eyes,  and  set  his  back  up  at  once.  The 
huge  head  was  lowered,  the  eyeballs  glared,  and  a  long,  low, 
ominous  bellow  warned  them  of  the  wrath  to  come. 

"Oh,  LordI  Oh,  good  gracious!"  gasped  Gwendoline, 
clutching  Sybil's  arm.     **  Oh,  Colonel  TrevanionI     Oh — //  /*' 

Her  ejaculations  ended  in  a  lon^,  wild  shriek  of  affright,  for 
the  bull,  with  a  second  terrific  bellow,  was  making  straight 
toward  the  red  plume  and  scarf.  And  Colonel  Trevanion, 
hero  of  a  hundred  Indian  victories,  invincible  in  Russian 
trenches  and  Balaklava  heights,  turned  inglorionsly  and— ;//6£/.' 
Yes,  fled!  In  half  a  dozen  bounds  he  was  over  the  stone  wall 
aiid  safe,  and  the  girls  were  left  in  the  middle  of  the  field  to 
face  their  doom  alone. 

But  the  guardian  angels  of  the  two  heiresses  were  surely  on 
the  lookout  that  day,  for  ere  Taurus,  foaming  and  enraged, 
could  reach  them,  a  wild  halloo  rang  thi-ough  the  field — a 
man  leaped  the  stone  wall  and  planted  himself  full  in  his  path, 
an  impromptu  matador.  The  angry  animal  stopped,  attracted 
by  his  new  foe,  who,  armed  with  a  huge  stick,  stood  betv^en 
him  and  the  scarlet  plume. 

"  For  God's  sake,  fly!  run  for  your  lives!  Charley!  CharlevI 
take  them  away — I'll  face  the  bull!"  called  a  hoarse,  breatn- 
less  voice — the  voice  of  Macgregor,  the  tenant  of  the  Eetreat. 

Stunned,  bewildered,  half  blind,  Sybil  and  Gwendoline  found 
themselves  hurried  along  by  Charley,  who  appeared  before 
them  as  if  he,  too,  had  arisen  out  of  the  earth.  They  reached 
the  boundary  wall,  they  were  over  it,  and  the  instant  Miss 
Chudleigh  found  herself  in  safety,  of  course,  her  first  act  was 
to  go  oti  into  a  dead  faint. 

But  Sybil  never  looked  at  her.  Pale,  breathless,  terrified, 
her  sole  thought  was  for  the  man  who  had  saved  her  life. 
How  he  managed  it  she  never  could  tell;  but  in  two  minutes 
he  had  leaped  the  wall,  and  stood  in  safety  by  her  side. 

*'  Sharp  work!  eh,  Charley?"  with  a  slight  laugh.  "  Good- 
evening,  Miss  Trevanion,"  bowing  with  as  ea^y  courtesy  as 
though  the  late  skirmish  had  been  a  contest  with  an  excited 
turkey  gobbler.  "  x  hope  his  angry  lordship  in  the  field  yon- 
der did  not  frighten  you  very  much?  Ahl  how's  this?  Mill 
Chudleigh  faintingr' 


# 


1^^ 


\>9 


lOi 


WHO   WIWI  f 


"  Don't  diitress  yourself,"  sa?i  Charley,  who  was  plenty 
folly  sprinkling  poor  Gwen  with  water;  **  I'm  bringing  her  to. 
And  wnen  1  ve  brought  her  to,  Pm  going  to  hunt  up  the  gal- 
lant Colonel  Trevanion,  and  bring  fiiin  to  also.  We'll  lud 
him  in  a  death-like  swoon,  ril  bo  sworn,  behind  the  nearest 
hedge.  He  ought  to  enter  himself  as  the  favorite  for  the 
DerD3*.  There  isn't  a  racer  in  all  England  could  beat  his  time, 
making  for  the  boundary  wall," 

Agam  Macgregor  laughed.  ' 

•*  '  He  who  flphts  nnd  nms  nvray, 
May  live  to  light  anollier  day.* 

There's  Miss  Chudleigh  opening  her  eyes.  Really,  Charley, 
you  ought  to  take  out  your  diploma.  Your  skill  in  bringing 
round  swooning  females  isn't  to  be  surpassed.  My  dear  Miss 
Gwendoline,"  bending  over  her,  as  that  young  ladv,  with 
rather  a  wild  expression  of  countenance,  sat  up,  "  1  hope 
Charley  hasn't  qui/e  drowned  you?  He  didn't  spare  cold 
water — I'll  say  that  for  him." 

**  The  bull!"  gasped  Gwendoline.  "Oh,  good  gracious, 
that  horrid  brute!   Where  are  we?    He  can't  get  us,  can  he?" 

"  No,  he  can't,"  said  Charley;  *'  and  if  he  could,  Owen, 
here's  Macgregor  and  I — a  match  for  a  whole  herd.  You're 
as  right  as  a  trivet,  and  righter,  if  possible." 

**  Were  yoit  going  to  head  him  otf  with  that  bamboo  switch, 
Charley?"  asked  Macgregor.  '*  It  would  have  been  a  novel 
sort  of  bull-fight,  certainly." 

Charley  held  up  the  switch  in  question,  and  snapped  it  in  twa 

"  *  My  loss  Ims  paid  my  folly's  tax, 
I've  broken  my  trusty  baltle-ax.' 

Oh,  bv  Jovel  here  comes  the  hero  of  a  hundred  fights,  and  as 
chap-fallen  a  hero  as  I've  seen  this  month  of  Sundays.  Mac- 
gregor, you  paint — here's  a  subject  for  your  next  picture. 
Coeur  de  Lion  running,  like  mad,  from  an  excited  bull,  and 
leaving  two  young  ladies  to  face  him  alone.  Ah,  colonel!" 
with  mock  politeness,  '*  I  trust  I  see  you  none  the  worse  for 
your  recent  little — ahem! — fright.  We  were  going  to  hunt  you 
up — thought  you  nuight  bo  in  a  fainting  fit  somewhere,  and 
egadi  you  don't  looli  unlike  it  this  moment" 

Truly  he  did  not.  His  dark  face  had  turned  of  an  ashen 
white,  and  his  fierce  black  eyes  had  a  wild,  vengefi^l  glare  as 
he  tunied  them  upon  the  speaker.  He  muttered  something, 
hoarsely  and  incoherently — no  one  knew  what — and  Charley 
looked  with  a  cynical  eye,  and  listened  with  a  pitiless  face. 

**Ihe  Trevaniou  blood  never  breeds  cowards^  eh>  my 


WHO   WIKB  f 


100 


colonel?  So  we'll  call  it  constitutional  caution.  Gracionil 
though,  the  constitutional  caution  would  have  been  unfortu- 
nate for  the  girls,  if  Macgrcpor  hadn't  chanced  along.  Sybil, 
I  never  knew  you  ungrateful  before.  Isn't  it  worth  a  *  thank 
you  '  to  save  your  life?" 

She  had  been  standing,  white  as  a  statue  of  snow,  with  many 
conflicting  emotions,  and  quite  unable  to  speak.  At  her 
brother" 8  rebuke  she  turned  to  her  preserver,  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"  I  am  not  ungrateful,*'  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
"  Mr.  Macgregor  will  not  think  so  badly  of  me  as  that." 

**  I  can  never  think  otherwise!  than  well  of  MissTrevanion," 
he  said,  with  grave  courtesy,  his  eyes  lingering  on  that  pur© 
white  hand  with  its  one  sparkling  solitaire.  '*  As  for  you, 
my  dear  Charley,  I  think  you  hud  much  better  hold  your 
tongue,  and  give  your  arm  to  Miss  Chudleigh,  who  looks  fit 
to  drop.  Make  sure  there  are  no  excitable  quadrupeds,  for  the 
future,  in  the  fields  you  cross,  with  scarlet  scarfs  and  feathers, 
my  dear  Miss  Gwendoline.  You're  a  heroine,  beyond  a  doubt, 
but  7i(it  where  angry  bulls  are  concerned.  You  fainted  in  the 
most  approved  fashion,  in  the  *  arms  of  your  preserverl*  as 
the  RadclitTe  romances  have  it — meaning  Charley,  of  course. 
It  was  quite  a  tableau.  Miss  Trevanion,  we  are  very  near  the 
Retreat.  You  will  do  me  the  honor  of  coming  in  and  resting 
for  a  few  moments,  I  trust." 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  and  Sybil  took  it  at  once.  Had  he 
not  saved  her  life,  and  was  there  not  a  subtle  charm  about  the 
man  that  bent  them  all  to  his  will?" 

*'  You,  too,  colonel,"  he  said,  courteously.  "  We  have  to 
settle  about  those  repairs,  you  know.  It  will  be  altogether  a 
charitable  act,  Miss  Trevanion,"  with  one  of  his  light  laughs, 
*'  for  visitors  at  my  humble  wigwam  are  like  angeis,  few  and 
far  between." 

Macgregor-s  pretty  dwelling,  with  its  clustering  roses,  its 
climbing  ivy,  its  stveetbrier  and  honeysuckle,  came  in  sight  even 
while  he  spoke.  The  red  glory  of  the  sunset  blazed  on  its  die- 
mond-paned  casements,  and  turned  the  water-pools  in  tho 
misty  woodland  into  pools  of  blood. 

The  deaf  old  woman  whr.  "  did  "  for  Mr.  Macgregor  stood 
in  the  vine- wreathed  door-way,  like  an  ancient  V  <us  framed 
in  sweet?,  and  dipped  a  courtesy  to  her  master  and  his  guests. 
Welcome  to  the  Retreat,  Miss  Trevanion,"  he  said,  ihrowr- 


ing  open  a  door  to  the 


right  a 


tl'.9  spacious  entrance-halL 


"This  is  my  drawmg-room,  atelier,  smoking-room,  study— all 
in  one.   You'll  overlook  the  general  topsy-turvyness  of  things 


106 


wao  wnrsf 


I  trust.  Mrs.  Dobson,  here,  does  her  best;  but  really  I  nertr 
could  be  brought  to  see  the  beauty  of  order.  Throw  off  thoae 
books  and  papers,  Charle\ .  They  can't  be  in  a  worse  muddle 
than  they  are  now.'" 

Sybil  and  Gwendoline  dropped  into  seats,  and  looked  about 
them  with  considerable  curiosity.  Certainly  it  was  a  scene  of 
"  most  admired  disorder,"  yet  fastidiously  clean,  and  possess- 
ing a  certain  element  of  the  picturesque  through  all  the  con- 
fusion. The  bare  walls  were  literally  covered  with  pictures- 
many  of  them  pricjelesg  gems — all  beautiful  in  their  way.  In 
one  corner  stood  an  easel,  with  a  covered  canvas;  in  another  a 
writing-desk,  strewn  with  MSS.,  proofs,  books,  and  all  the  par- 
aphernalia of  authorship.  And  there  were  pistols,  and  sabers, 
and  fencing-foils,  and  tobacco-boxes,  and  dice-boxes,  and 
meerschaums,  and  lorgnons,  statuettes,  and  par'^ots,  and  cock- 
atoos, and  canaries  in  cages,  and  geraniums  in  pots,  a  piano,  a 
violin,  no  end  of  fishing-rods,  and  the  novels  of  Paul  de  Kock 
— all  the  unsanctified  thousand  and  one  things  of  a  bachelor's 
apartment. 

The  old  woman  who  "  did  "  for  the  owner  of  this  apart- 
ment vanished,  and  presently  reappeared  with  Mr.  Francaia, 
the  va^et,  laden  with  wine  and  cake,  grapes  and  peaches,  for 
the  ladies.  And  Gwendoline,  who  had  regained  all  her  brusque 
insouciance,  partook  of  the  fruit,  and  fluttered  about  the  room, 
looking  at  everything,  and  lost  in  admiration. 

**  Just  hear  this  lovely  green  parrot  chattering  French, 
Sybil  I  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Ingram  would  approve  of  his  accent. 
Do  you  play  the  violin  and  piano  both,  and  paint  pictures,  and 
write  books,  too,  Mr.  Macgregor?  Dear  me,  you're  distress- 
ingly clever!  It  really  makes  my  poor  head  spin  to  think  of 
it!  And  we  may  look  at  the  pictures,  mayn't  we?  And  I 
may  take  this  cover  off,  mayn't  I?  Oh,  %bil,  how  sweetl 
Just  come  here!" 

She  had  whipped  the  screen  from  the  painting  on  the  easel, 
and  stood  wrapped  in  admiration  before  it.  The  artist  had 
mac'  >  a  slight  motion  as  though  to  prevent  her,  then  checked 
himself  and  stood  a  little  aside,  liis  lips  compressed  under  his 
dark  beard. 

Sybil  arose  and  went  over.  A  moment  she  looked;  then 
she  uttered  a  faint  ejaculation,  and  her  eyes  turned  full  upon 
the  artist  in  mute  inquiry. 

It  was  an  evening  scene— -an  avenue  with  waving  trees- 
park  ^ates  in  the  foreground,  and  the  turrets  of  a  stately  man- 
sion rising  in  the  distance.  A  tall,  slender  younff  man  stood 
lu)lding  ft  little  girl— a  mere  child— in  his  arms»  his  tall  form 


WHO    TTCTSf 


10? 


fient  over  her.  You  conld  see  neither  face  distinctly,  but  he 
Wfts  in  the  act  of  placing  a  ring  upon  her  finger.  And  under 
the  trees  crouched  a  weird  figure — a  gypsy-faced  old  crone- 
glaring  t^pon  the  youthful  pair  with  malign  old  eyes.  Beneath 
wa3  written:  "  Until  we  ineet  again." 

**  Very  pretty,  indeed/'  said  Charley,  with  his  customary 
drawl;  "  only  why  won't  they  let  us  see  their  countenances; 
and  what's  the  elderly  party  under  the  trees  making  faces  for? 
She's  not  in  love  with  that  slim  young  man,  and  jealous  of 
the  Iit'.!e  one,  h  she?  By  George!  the  ancient  dame  isn't  un- 
like old  Crazy  Hester." 

''  And  the  place  looks  like  Monkswood,*'  added  Gwendo- 
line. "  Coaldn't  they  have  faced  the  company,  Mr.  Mac- 
gregor,  as  well  as  not?  Nice,  isn't  it,  Sybil?  Why  don't  you 
Bay  something?     I  never  knew  you  tongue- tied  before." 

And  then,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  the  volatile  bar- 
onet's daughter  darted  off  at  a  new  tangent,  and  pounced  upon 
a  portfolio  of  sketches  upon  the  table. 

**  Charley,  come  and  untie  the  strings — I  adore  pictures, 
you  know.  How  Mr.  Macgregor  finds  time  to  do  all  these 
things,  and  lie  under  the  trees  and  smoke  the  way  he  does,  is 
?»  mystery  to  w?e." 

Mr.  Macgregor  paid  no  heed  to  the  compliment.  He  was 
standing,  a  half  smile  on  his  face,  looking  at  Sybil's  puzzled, 
wistful,  inquiring  countenance.  Once  or  twice  she  looked  at 
him,  with  a  half-formed  qn^tion  on  her  lips,  and  each  time 
iiOting  those  clear  dark  eyes;  her  own  fell  and  her  color  rose. 
The  inquiry  she  would  have  made  died  on  her  lips. 

She  turned  away  abruptly  and  walked  over  to  the  table 
where  Gwendoline  and  Charley  animatedly  discussed  tlie  con- 
tents of  the  portfolio. 

**  *  Girl  crossing  a  brook  with  pitchers.'  They'ry  always 
crossing  brooks  with  pitchers,  and  always  in  their  bare  feet. 
*  Heron  drinking  out  of  a  solitary  pool.'  How  thirsty  the 
Herons  invariably  are  in  water-colors!  '  Speiring  fortunes.' 
Oh,  of  course,  the  everlasting  red  cloak  and  gypsy  face,  and 
she's  charmingly  pretty,  and  the  gentleman's  a  perfect  love. 
And — eh?  why,  good  gracious  me  if  there  isn't  Mrs.  Ingram!" 

Gwendoline  jerked  out  a  sketch  in  a  violent  hurry  and  -held 
it  up  to  general  view.  It  was  a  water-color — a  woman's  head, 
with  long,  almond  eyes  and  melting  smile.  And  beneath,  in 
pencil,  **  A  Rose  Full  of  Thorns." 

**  It  is  Mrs.  Ingram,  by  Japiter!"  exclaimed  Charley.  "  I 
say,  Macgregor,  where  did  you  ever  see  the  little  widow,  and 
how  do  you  come  to  be  so  deuced  uncomplimentary?    *  A  roie 


.  1 


%<» 


WHO  wnsTsf 


] 


£nll  of  thorns.'    Do  you  hear  that,  my  colonel?    Be  warned 
in  time." 

Sybil  looked  swiftly  over  her  shoulder  at  the  artist.  He  was 
etauding  behind  her  brother,  and  the  darkly  handsome  face 
had  turned  a  dead  white. 

**  The  original  of  that  picture  is  dead/'  he  said,  hoarsely. 
^*  I  don't  know  your  Mrs.  Ingram." 

**  Egad,  then,  you've  painted  herl"  said  Charley;  "  the 
original  may  be  dead  ten  times  over,  but  that's  Mrs.  Ingram 
to  a  clear  certainty,  and  a  capital  likeness,  too.  If  he  doesn't 
believe  us  he  can  step  over  to  Chudleigh  Chase—eh,  Gwen?— 
and  satisfy  himself  as  soon  as  he  pleases." 

**  I  think  v/e  had  better  go,''  said  Sybil,  rising  hurriedly; 
**  mamma  will  Xancy  I  am  lost.  It  will  be  quite  dark  before 
W8  reach  home,  and  there  is  no  moon  to-night." 

"  VVith  Colonel  Trevanion  to  protect  you,  what  need  you 
fear?"  said  Cliarley,  firing  a  parting  shot  at  the  Indian  officer. 
**  Come,  Miss  Chudleigh,  you  mnsl  tear  yourself  away  from 
Macgregor  and  his  laauifold  attractions.  Time  is  ou  the 
wing." 

The  trio  departed— their  host  made  no  attempt  to  detain 
them.  The  dead  whiteness  that  had  settled  on  his  face  was 
there  still  when  he  bid  them  good-evening — there  still,  when, 
ftn  hour  later,  he  leaned  over  his  garden  gatC;  watching  the 
inmmer  stars  come  out  and  glimmer  in  their  golden  beauty  on 
the  still  black  pools.  t 

"  And  I  thought  her  dead/'  he  said,  between  his  teethj 
"  and  once  more  she  rises  before  me  wher j  I  had  hoped  even 
i)  forget  her  memory.    Oh,  my  God!  am  I  never  to  be  free?" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ON   GUARD. 

The  pretty  little  widow  who  had  come  to  "  form  "  that  fast 
young  lady,  Miss  Gtvendoline  Chudleigh,  made  herself  entirely 
at  home  at  Chudleigh  Chase.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  house — 
the  rooms  large,  lightsome,  elegant — Sir  Rupert's  French  cook 
was  an  artist,  and  the  dainty  little  widow  was  a  gourmande  in 
her  way,  and  lik'^i  her  sparkling  Moselle,  her  hcol:,  and  her 
Cliquot.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  house,  and  tne  hospitable 
baronet  entertained  some  very  pleasant  people;  and  if  his 
daughter's  governess  and  companion  had  been  a  duchess,  he 
could  hardly  have  Jireated  her  with  more  courtly  Grandisonian 
reBpect.  It  was  ever  so  much  nicer  than  at  Trevanion  Park, 
Ipitn  only  fidgety  Lady  Lemoz,  and  her  high-stepping,  proud' 


tmo  wiHsf 


^oo 


^ed  daughter,  and  ::cth!ng  better  to  flirt  with  than  a  fiippuit 
Eton  boy.  For  Mrs.  Ingram  dearly  loved  flirting — she  was  a 
coquette,  and,  as  Miss  Trovanion  had  said  of  her,  would  make 
eyes  at  the  stable  lads,  if  no  better  gaoae  was  to  be  had.  But 
better  game  was  abundant  at  Chudleigh  Chase.  First  of  all, 
there  was  the  baronet  himself,  upon  whom  old  point  and  float- 
ing draperies,  and  plump  shoulders,  and  perfumed  tresses, 
and  long  almond  eyes,  were  never  thrown  away.  And  thero 
were  the  officers  of  the  rifle  brigade,  very  heavy  swells  indeed^ 
from  the  colonel,  who  wrote  his  name  high  in  the  peerage,  to 
the  dashing  young  subs,  with  the  green  down  yet  callow  on 
their  military  chins,  and  who  invariably  lost  their  heads  at 
first  sight  o*  the  gorgeous  widow.  And  there  were  the  county 
magnates — ponderous  young  squires  in  top-boots  and  pint 
coats,  with  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  an  overfed  look,  like 
their  own  Durham  cows,  who  stared  at  the  brilliant  little  lady 
in  speechless  admiration,  and  whispered  clumsy  compliments 
in  her  pretty  pink  ear  after  dmner  in  the  drawing-room.  AL<i 
lastly,  there  was  Cyril  Trevanion — hero  and  knight-errant— a 
modern  corsair  as  to  his  mysterious  moodiness,  who  lived  but 
in  her  divine  presence,  and  who  glared  ferociously  upon  every- 
thing masculine  that  dared  approach  her. 

Sir  Eupert  Chudleigh  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  call  upon 
the  returned  heir  of  Monkswood — his  old  friend's  son — and 
welcome  him  heartily  back  to  England.  But  the  returned 
heir  had  met  the  baronet's  courteous  advances  with  that  silent 
Bulkiness  that  appeared  his  normal  state. 

"  Your  cousin  is  very  much  changed,  my  dear  Miss  Trevan- 
ion," Sir  Rupert  had  said  to  Sybil,  stroking  his  beard  thought- 
fully; **  changed  out  of  all  knowledge,  and  not  for  the  b§tter, 
I  regret  to  say.  The  Tre  van  ions  were  always  gentlemen— 
thorough-bred;  but  your  cousin — I  give  you  my  word — he  ii 
as  rude  as  the  most  uncouth  boor  in  Sussex.  And  I  remember 
him  sixteen  years  ago,  with  the  polished  manners  of  a  prinoo 
regent  himself." 

Nevertheless,  Sir  Rupert  invited  the  ex-colonel  to  Chudleiffh 
Chase,  and  the  ex-colonel,  finding  his  Circe  an  inmate  of  tne 
house,  accepted  at  once,  and  haunted  the  manor  as  a  ghost. 
The  elderly,  elegant  baronet  frowned  a  little  at  these  too  assid- 
uous attentions. 

**  The  fellow  k  a  fool  as  well  as  a  boor.  He's  after  that  lit- 
tle woman  like  a  feiret  after  a  rabbit,  a  terrier  after  a  rat,  ct 
^  hound  after  a  fox.  He'll  want  her  to  marry  him  next — the 
gnperhuman  idiot,  and  he'll  fetch  her  to  Monkswood,  and  shut 
her  up  with  the  prior's  ghost,  and  feed  her  on  greens  aod  bar 


110 


WHO   WIKB  ? 


con,  and  shoot  any  man  who  so  much  as  looks  at  her.  And 
to  think  that  that  scowling,  sullen,  ill-mannered  lout — for  he 
is  a  lout — should  be  Ewes  Trevanion's  son,  with  the  beat 
blood  of  the  kingdom  in  his  veins.  And  yet  why  need  I  talk 
— there's  Gwendoline — no  milkmaid  in  the  country  was  ev^r 
more  rustic  than  she.  It  must  be  that  the  old  blood  degen- 
erates— more's  the  pityl  I  only  hope  Mrs.  Ingram  won't  oe  a 
fool  and  listen  to  Trevanion.  He's  as  poor  as  a  rat,  and  the 
Jittle  Edith  is  ambitious.  I  dare  say  she  would  like  to  become 
my  Lady  Chudleigh,  and  display  the  family  diamonds  on  that 
superb  neck  of  hers,  and  reign  Lady  Paramount  at  the  county 
balls.  She's  capital  stvle,  past  mistress  of  the  art  of  dress — 
looks  like  one  of  Lely's  women,  with  their  ripe  figures  and 
smiling  lips  and  scented  ctirls;  or  Reynold's  bright-eyed, 
laughing  girls,  who  bewitch  you  from  the  canvas.  I  admire 
her  immensely,  and  like  to  look  at  her  exceedingly — but  as  to 
marrying  her — no,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ingram — I'll  do  anything 
for  you  but  that.  I'll  pay  you  any  reasonable  yearly  salary 
you  like — I'll  listen  to  your  delicious  little  chansons  and  bal- 
lads— I'll  play  ecarte  with  you — I'll  admire  your  exquisite 
toilets — I'll  pay  you  high-flown  compliments;  but  as  for  mak- 
ing you  Lady  Chudleigh — no,  madame — I  never  will." 

But  Mrs.  Ingram  could  not  read,  clever  as  she  was,  the  bar- 
onet's complacent  thoughts,  and  her  motto  was  still  "  hope 
on.*' 

She  spent  two  or  three  hours  a  day  over  her  toilets,  and 
came  down  to  dinner  as  elaborately  dressed  as  though  the  bar- 
onet entertained  a  perpetual  dinner-party.  She  had  diamonds, 
and  opals,  and  emeralds,  whot>e  radiance  made  you  wink 
again;  moires  and  brocades  stiff  enough  in  their  richness  to 
stand  alone.  They  were  rather  suspicious,  those  splendid 
jewels,  seeing  that  governesses,  poor  things,  as  a  rule,  don't 
sport  such  splendor;  but  Mrs.  Ingrim  looked  up  at  you  with 
tears  in  the  soft,  luminous  dark  eyes,  and  told  you  how 
*'poor,  darling  Harry" — the    late  lamented  Ingram — had 

fiven  her  the  diamonds  and  opals,  and  her  grace  of  Strath- 
ane,  the  emeralds;  and  how  could  you  be  monster  enough  to 
doubt  the  truth  of  those  innocent,  tearful  eyes? 

She  stood  alone  in  the  picfars-guUery  of  Chudleigh,  one 
afternoon,  a  little  ( ver  a  week  after  her  coming.  As  usual, 
her  toilet  was  simply  perfectiorv — rich  green  silk,  that  trailed 
and  wound  after  her,  a  crown  of  i'y  on  the  glossy  black  hair, 
rare  old  lace  draping  the  rounded  armr,  the  Strathbane  em- 
eralds gleaming  greenish  as  rhe  moved,  and  a  gold  serpent 
bracelet  with  emerald  eyes  on  iier  dimpled  wrist.    She  stood« 


amid  tl 

Dyck,  ■ 

•teadye 

eyes  hi 

other  ej 

lines  th 

was  vei 

ner,  an 

nial  yoi 

were  sa 

The 

cast;  tl 

and  w< 


■jm 


WHO  wxmf 


111 


amid  the  long  array  of  court  beauties  by  Kneller  and  Van 
Dyck,  herself  a  lovely  vision,  gazing  out  with  bent  brows  and 
iteadyeyes  at  the  ceaseless,  falling  rain.  Those  melting,  starry 
eyes  had  a  trick  of  growing  very  hard  and  steely  when  no 
other  eyes  were  near,  and  the  smooth  brow  bent  into  sharp 
lines  that  turned  her  ten  years  older  in  as  many  minutes.  She 
was  very  pale,  too.  It  was  not  quite  time  to  go  down  to  din- 
ner, and  that  wondrous  rouge  in  which  she  bloomed  in  peren- 
nial youth,  and  the  belladonna  that  lighted  up  the  velvet  eyes, 
were  safely  locked  up  in  the  widow's  drawers. 

The  August  day  had  been  dull,  sunless,  sultry,  and  over- 
cast; the  August  evening  was  closing  down,  hopelessly  windy 
and  wet.  The  trees  rocked  in  a  high  gale,  the  red-deer 
trooped  away  to  their  shelter,  sky  and  sea  blended  afar  off  in 
one  long,  gray  line.  It  was  a  very  fair  domain,  this  Chud- 
leigh  Chase,  even  in  the  rainy  twilight  of  an  eerie  day — a 
grand  old  place — and  the  wife  of  Sir  Kupert  Chudleigh  and 
the  mistress,  of  these  broad  acres  might  consider  herself  a  very 
lucky  woman  indeed. 

"  And  not  one  rood  of  it  all  is  entailed,"  the  widow 
thought,  her  dark  eyet:.  wandering  greedily  over  meadow  and 
park  and  copse.  "  And  he  doesn't  care  for  Gwendoline.  If 
«he  were  to  die  to-morrow,  he  would  shrug  his  shoulders  and 
lift  his  eyebrows,  and  say:  *  Poor  child,  how  very  unpleasant 
to  finish  like  this!'  and  go  back  to  Voltaire  and  Condorcet, 
and  forget  her  in  a  week.  As  Mrs.  Ingram,  I  am  nobody,  less 
than  nobody,  barely  tolerated,  admired  with  an  admiration 
that  is  an  insult  in  itself,  an  object  of  suspicion,  a  toast  for 
the  mess-table,  an  adventuress,  a  milliner's  lay-figure.  But  as 
Lady  Chudleigh,  this  wretched  life  of  plotting,  of  intrigue, 
this  dreary  treadmill,  on  which  I  have  gone  up  and  down  for 
the  past  twenty  years,  of  which  I  am  wearied  to  death,  might 
end.  I  might  forget  the  past,  I  might  turn  Lady  Bountiful, 
grow  as  saintly  and  as  orthodox  as  Miss  Trevanion  herself,  and 
pass  the  remainder  of  my  days  free  from  guile,  embroidering 
elaborate  stoles  and  surplices  for  newly  Hedged  curates,  and 
leading  the  choir  in  the  village  church.  I  could  turn  my  mind 
to  the  poor,  to  beef  and  to  blankets  at  Christmas,  to  eat  tea 
and  stale  buns  for  the  charity  children,  and  forget  the  bad, 
bitter  past.  And  by  and  by  there  would  possibly  be  an  heir, 
and  I  might  be  simply  and  honestly  happy,  like  other  women, 
an  honored  wife,  a  loved  mother.  Oh,  lost  wretch  that  I  ami" 
She  covered  her  face  suddenly,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot. 
"  Can  I  forget  I  once  had  a  child?  \^here  in  all  the  wide 
9fath,  or  under  it,  is  the  baby  I  deserted  eighteen  years  s^of* 


Ill 


WHO    WINS? 


The  dinner-bell  sounded  while  she  still  stood  there,  white 
and  cold,  so  altered,  so  haggard,  so  old,  so  worn,  that  Sir  Ru- 
pert  Chudleigh  would  not  have  believed  his  own  eyes  had  he 
seen  her.  But  at  the  sound  of  that  loud  clanging  in  the  lofty 
turrets,  she  turned  slowly  away  and  went  up  to  her  room. 
She  was  a  first-class  actress  in  the  great  drama  of  life,  and  it 
was  her  turn  to  go  on  and  smile,  and  look  happy  and  beauti- 
ful, and  play  the  dreary  play  out. 

The  many  clustering  lights  were  lighted  in  drawing  aucl 
dining-room  when  the  elegant  widow  swept  in,  the  dark  i»yeQ 
brilliantly  sparkling,  the  delicate  rose-tint  bright  on  cheek  and 
lip,  the  soft,  subtle  smile  at  its  most  witching.  The  brilliant 
green  ot  her  dress  setoff  that  rich,  bright  complexion,  and  the 
curiously  plaited  coronet  of  ivy  lay  like  some  chaplet  on  the 
abundant  black  tresses. 

There  were  strangers  in  the  long  drawing-room  when  Mrs. 
Ingram  swept  ii^;  but  strangers  at  Sir  Rupert's  hospitable 
board  were  nothing  to  marvel  at.  And  two  of  the  guests  were 
not  strangers,  either,  to  the  widow. 

Cyril  Trevanion,  turning  over  a  volume  of  engravings,  all 
by  himself,  and  feverishly  watching  the  door  by  which  she 
must  enter;  and  Charles  Lemox,  leaning  on  the  back  of 
Gwendoline's  chair,  and  talking  in  his  usual  slow,  lazy  voice. 
A  third  gentleman — a  tall,  dark-bearded  man,  with  a  sun- 
burned, striking,  and  eminently  handsome  face — stood  leaning 
negligently  against  the  marble  mantel,  arguing  some  question 
animatedly  with  his  host. 

Mrs.  Ingram  looked  at  him,  and  looked  again.  Like  Queen 
Elizabeth,  of  virgin  memory,  she  had  a  great  and  mighty  ad- 
miration for  handsome  men,  and  adored  (but  most  women  do 
that)  thews  and  sinews  and  physical  might.  Regarded  from 
this  point  of  view,  the  dark  stranger  was  really  a  magnificent 
specimen  of  kingly  man.  It  was  much  the  same  sort  of  glance 
as  Henry  the  Eighth's  royal  daughter  gave  poor  Raleigh,  and 
Essex,  and  Leicester,  and  hosts  of  others,  equally  approving 
and  equally  fatal. 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  busy  hum  of  conversation  as  the 
handsome  widow  sailed  forward,  her  long  silk  robe  trailing, 
her  emeralds  gleaming  in  the  soft,  mellow  light.  Colonel 
Trevanion  and  Charley  rose  to  greet  her,  and  the  baronet  ad- 
ran  ced  and  presented  his  guest,  the  stranger,  as  Mr.  Angus 
Macgregor. 

"You've  heard  of  him,  ?.nd  you've  read  him,  no  doubt," 
the  baronet  said.  '*  He's  very  delightful  in  type,  and  cheap, 
in  cloth^  lettered,  at  three-and-sixpence  a  volume.    He's  been 


wso  wmf 


v^ 


118 


k  and 
rilliant 
nd  the 
ou  the 


everywhere,  and  seen  everything;  snd  I  can  safely  recommend 
him  as  amusing,  when  the  time  permits  you  to  draw  him  out." 

The  little  lady  laughed,  as  she  hold  out  her  ringed  right 
hand  to  the  superb  stranger. 

**  How  very  complimentary  Sir  Rupert  is,  Mr.  Macgrcgor. 
He  promotes  you  to  the  Eanie  rank  as  a  new  song,  a  novel,  a 
poodle,  or  an  opera.  Yes,  I  have  heard  of  you,  and  read  you, 
and  your  poems  are  entrancing,  and  your  novels  fascinating, 
and  your  books  of  travel  perfectly  irresistible." 

There  were  men  alive  who  would  have  given  a  year  of  their 
life  for  the  sweetly  murmured  words — then  for  the  Parthian 
glance  that  shot  the  compliment  home.  Colonel  Trevanion's 
countenance  was  like  a  thunder-cloud;  but  the  tall  tenant  of 
the  Retreat  just  touched  and  dropped  the  taper  fingers,  and 
the  handsome  bearded  face  looked  strangely  stern  and  set. 

"Mrs.  Ingram  is  pleased  to  be  sarcastic,"  he  said,  very 
coldly.  "  Neither  I  nor  ray  poor  books  make  any  pretense  of 
ranking  among  the  immortals.  '  Men  must  work,'  as  Kings- 
Icy  says,  and  if  I  earn  the  bread  and  butter  of  daily  life  by 
quill-driving,  I  ask  no  more." 

The  deep,  dark  eyes  met  Mrs.  Ingram's  with  a  long,  steady, 
powerful  glance;  the  deep,  stern  voice  had  a  metallic  ring  new 
to  most  of  his  hearers;  and  as  the  widow  met  those  strong 
black  eyes,  heard  tjiat  vibrating  tone,  the  color  faded  slowly 
from  brow  to  chin,  leaving  her  of  a  dull,  unnatural  white. 
Even  the  rouge  seemed  to  pale,  and  the  velvety  eyes  dilated  in 
some  strange  and  unaccountable  terror.  Where  had  ^he  met 
those  eyes?  where  had  she  heard  that  voice  before?  and  why 
did  this  new  terror  clutch  her  heart  like  a  mailed  hand? 

**  Dinner!"  announced  the  butler,  flinging  open  the  door. 

Sir  Rupert  courteously  otfered  his  arm  to  the  widow,  Char- 
ley took  possession  of  Gwendoline,  and  Cyril  Trevanion  and 
Angus  Macgregor  brought  up  the  rear. 

"Look  at  Macgregor,  Gvven,-'  Charley  said,  in  an  aside; 
**  he's  as  stern  as  Rhadamanthus,  and  glowering  as  only  a 
black-browed  Scotchman  can  glower.  What  do  you  suppose 
is  the  matter — his  digestion  or  the  widow?" 

"  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Macgregor  is  a  Scotchman,"  replied 
Gwendoline,  "  despite  his  grand  old  name.  I  thought  all 
Scotchmen  were  flinty-cheeked,  raw-boned,  and  red-haired, 
and  with  an  accent  as  broad  as  their  native  Tweed.  I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter,  but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  were  the 
widow;  she's  capable  of  anything,  that  simperuig  little  sor- 
ceress. And  then,  you  know,  he  had  her  picture.  Oh!  by 
the  way,  I  must  tell  her  about  it,  and  see  wxiat  she  says.    Mju 


iU 


WHO  wisrs  ? 


Ingram  "—raising  her  voice—"  did  you  erer  meet  Mr.  Mao< 
gregor  " 
portrait : 

**  Stunning] 

inconveniently  large  1  would  have  taken  it  the  other  day  to 
irear  upon  my  heart.  It  must  be  you,  though  Macgregor  says 
it  isn't.  1  don't  believe  there  are  two  Mrs.  Ingrams  in  the 
scheme  of  creation."  And  Charley  bowed  to  point  the  com- 
pliment. 

Mrs.  Ingram  looked  across  the  table  with  startled  eyes;  but 
Macgregor 's  dark,  impassive  face  never  moved  a  muscle. 

**  Impossible!"  she  said,  sharply.     **  I  never  saw  Mr.  Mac- 

fregor  before  to-day,  although,  perhaps,  Mr.  Macgregor  may 
ave  seen  wic." 

Mr.  Macgregor  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  with  a  pointed 
intensity  that  for  the  second  time  thrilled  her  with  terror  to 
the  heart. 

**  I  never  met  Mrs.  Ingram  in  my  life  until  this  evening," 
he  said,  slowly,  and  with  a  strong  emphasis  upon  the  name, 
**  and  yet  the  picture  Charley  speaKs  of  is  strikingly  like  her. 
But  it  is  the  portrait  of  a  woman  dead  these  many  years,  or 
supposed  to  be — a  woman  who  in  her  life-time  was  so  utterly 
lost  and  vicious  that  I  would  not  let  her  approach  a  dog  I 
cherished.     The  woman's  name  was  Rose  Dawson." 

He  never  took  his  eyes  off  her  face — those  cold,  stern,  piti- 
less eyes;  and,  for  the  second  time  that  evening,  the  color 
faded,  and  a  dead,  livid  white  overspread  the  widow's  face, 
through  which  the  rouge  gleamed  ghastly  red.  But  it  was  only 
for  an  instant.  Talleyrand  himself  might  have  envied  Mrs. 
Ingram  her  admirable  self-control.  Before  the  others  could 
notice,  the  corpse-like  pallor  was  gone,  and  Mrs.  Ingram  was 
shrugging  her  dimpled  shoulders,  making  a  pretty,  pettish 
gesture. 

"  How  verjr  unpleasant!  And  I  look  like  that  poor  dead 
person?  It  is  quite  extraordinary,  these  accidental  resem- 
olances.  Here  is  Colonel  Trevanion,  for  instance,  Mr.  Mac;- 
gregor;  many  say  he  resembles  you." 

**  Gad!  he  does,  too,"  said  the  barouet,  eyin^  them  crit- 
yially,  '*  and  I  never  noticed  it  before.  That  patriarchal  beard 
of  yours,  Macgre<yor,  hides  half  your  face;  but  what  we  can 
see  certainly  resembles  the  colonel.  How  are  you  going  to  ac- 
count for  it,  Macgregor?  You  appear  to  have  a  theory  for 
averything." 

Tne  Author  smiled — a  gneer,  doubtful  smile — and  looked  at 


WHO  wnfs  f 


lift 


Oyrll  Trevsnion  with  a  glance  that,  for  some  reason,  made 
that  officer  writhe  in  his  seat. 

**  Perhaps  I  have  a  theory  for  that,  too,  and  may  let  you 
hear  it  at  some  future  day.  Yes,  although  I  can  not  *  see  my- 
self as  others  see  me,'  stil'  I  fancy  there  is  a  resemblance;  but 
it  is  not  half  as  strong  as  his  resemblance  to  another  man  I 
met  once.  In  fact,  I  was  staggered  when  I  first  saw  Mr.  Tre- 
yanion,  so  striking  is  it.  The  fellow's  alive  yec,  for  what  I 
know — poor  devil! — and  really,  colonel,  you  and  he  might  be 
twin  brothers.'* 

A  strange  light  came  into  the  eyes  of  Cyril  Trevanion  at 
times — a  wild,  half-maniac  g'aro.  That  light  gleamed  in 
them  now,  and  his  swarthy  face  absolutely  blackened. 

**  Who  was  this  man,  and  where  did  you  see  him?"  he 
asked,  hoarsely. 

"  Well,  I  hardly  care  to  say.  Like  Mrs.  Ingram's  resem- 
blance to  the  wretched  dead  woman  I  spoke  of,  it  isn't  compli- 
mentary. But  if  you  will  have  it — and,  of  course,  it  is  only 
one  of  nature's  absurd  freaks— it  was  at  Toulon,  and  the  fel- 
low was  a  galley-slave.  He'd  committed  an  atrocious  robbery 
in  Paris,  and  the  poor  wretch  was  chained  by  the  leg  to  a  big 
brute  of  a  murderer  when  I  saw  him.  I  will  never  forget,  to 
my  dying  day,  the  look  he  bestowed  on  me — the  wolfish,  ma- 
niac glare.  He  2vas  half  mad,  I  fancy.  It  gave  me  such  a 
thrill  of  terror — yes,  terror  and  disgust — that  I  never  forgot 
him  since.  And,  singular  to  relate,  colonel,  the  galley-slave 
at  Toulon  was  very  like  you  P* 

For  some  reason  dead  silence  fell — for  some  reason  every 
one  looked  at  Cyril  Trevanion.  And  the  wolfish,  maniac  glare 
of  which  Macgregor  had  spoken  could  never  have  been  more 
horrible  in  the  eyes  of  the  half -mad  galley-slave  than  it  glit- 
tered in  Jiis  eyes  then. 

**  Come,  come!"  Sir  Rupert  cried,  rather  startled;  "this 
won't  do,  Macgregor.  Really,  you  are  singularly  unfortunate 
in  your  topics,  for  once.  My  dear  Trevanion,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  glare  at  us  so!  We  see  these  accidental  resem- 
blances every  day,  and  half  of  them  are  in  our  imaginations. 
Yottr  imagination,  Macgregor,  is  getting  overheated,  I  think. 
You  must  leave  off  scribbling,  and  take  to  the  stubble  and  the 
partridges  next  month.  I  can  promise  you  rare  sport  at  Chud- 
leigh." 

Five  minutes  after,  Mrs.  Ingram  and  Miss  Chndleigh  left 
the  gentlemen  to  themselves.  It  was  the  author  who  held  the 
door  open  xor  them  to  pass  cut;,  and  as  Gwendcline  looked  up 


11« 


WHO   WXVlf 


ftt  him  in  solemn  wonder  the  smile  that  met  her  was  rarely 
sweet. 

"  You're  not  the  gentleman  with  the  cloven  foot,  are  you, 
Mr.  Macgregor?"  she  whispered.  **  You've  frightened  Mra 
Ingram  and  Colonel  Trevunion  out  of  a  year's  growlh.  It 
wili  he  my  turn  next;  and  you'll  tell  me  I'm  twin  si&tor  to  a 
murderess,  I  dare  say." 

**  Close  up,  gentleman — close  up  I"  cried  the  pleasant  tones 
of  the  baronet.  **  Colonel,  no  back-handing  so  soon.  You 
sit  as  grim  as  the  Watcher  on  the  Threshold,  and  about  aa 
silent.  Charley,  are  they  going  to  banish  you  up  to  Oxford 
next  term?" 

But  all  the  baronet's  efforts  to  force  the  conversation  were 
in  vain.  Cyril  Trevanion  sat  like  a  statue  of  stone  at  the 
feast.  He  peeled  his  walnuts  and  dipped  them  in  his  sherry, 
and  glowered  vindictively  every  now  and  then  at  his  opponent 
across  the  way.  But  Mr.  Macgregor  took  little  notice  of  those 
black  looks.  He  and  his  host  had  got  into  some  animated 
argument,  which  lasted  until  they  Joined  the  ladies. 

Mrs.  Ingram  sat  at  the  piano,  playing  softly;  Cyril  Trevan- 
ion crossed  over  and  stood  beside  her.  The  baronet  and  the 
author  sat  down  to  a  game  of  cards,  and  Charley,  who  had, 
like  the  widow  herself,  an  innate  talent  for  flirting,  made 
languid  love  to  Gwendoline,  curled  up  on  an  ottoman  at  her 
elbow. 

**  Who  is  that  man,"  Cyril  Trevanion  asked,  in  a  hoarse, 
breathless  sort  of  way,  **  who  knows  you,  Mrs.  Ingram,  and 
who  knows  me  ?" 

**  Colonel  Trevanion!"  the  widow  cried,  inexpressibly 
startled,  "  how  dare  you?    What  do  you  mean?" 

Colonel  Trevanion  laughed — a  harsh,  mirthless  laugh — and 
that  wild  light  was  in  his  fierce  black  eyes  again. 

"  Let  us  take  off  our  masks  for  a  little,  my  dear  madame, 
and  look  each  other  in  the  face.  When  I  told  you,  three  days 
ago,  that  I  loved  you,  that  I  adored  you,  do  you  think  I  took 
you  then  for  what  you  pretend  to  be?  You  did  me  the  honor 
to  refuse.  But  we  know  each  other  now,  and  you  will  think 
better  of  that  refusal,  I  am  sure.  You  are  no  more  Mrs.  In- 
gram than — " 

^  "Than  you  are  Cyril  Trevanion!"  the  lady  said  in  a  fierce, 

hissing  whisper.  **  You  see  I  know  yon  as  well  as  this  horrible 

Macgregor.     And  you  are — I  shall  net  be  at  all  surprised — the 

escaped  galley-slave  of  Toulon!" 

Cyril  Trevanion  laughed  again — a  low^  mirthless,  blood* 


WJBU  wm  P 


m 


onrdling  laugh  that  absolutely  fiightened  the  woman  beiidt 
him. 

•*  Whatever  I  am,  I  love  you,  I  worship  you,  oh,  beautiful 
Edithl  and  mine  you  shall  be,  in  spite  of  earth  and  Hades! 
You  want  to  be  Lady  Chudleigh,  don't  you?  And,  with  ten 
thousand  a  year  in  prospective,  you  are  ready  ti>  ^hrow  over  a 
hundred  poor  devils  like  me.  Think  better  of  it,  Edith  In- 
gram! Think  twice  before  you  make  an  enemy  of  CyrU  Tre- 
vanioni" 

Ho  swung  round  abruptly  as  he  spoke,  and  came  near  her 
no  more  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

It  was  late  when  the  baronet  and  his  antagonist  rose  from 
their  game  of  cards,  and  Mrs.  Ingram  was  floating  out  of  the 
drawing-room  as  they  made  their  adieus.  She  stood  for  an  in- 
stant on  the  marble  stairs,  her  silk  robe  and  her  emeralds 
gleaming  greenly  against  the  white  statues,  and  looked  defi- 
antly into  the  face  of  Angus  Macgregor. 

It  was  like  the  challenge  of  a  big,  powerful  Newfoundland 
and  a  vicious  little  King  Charles  as  their  eyes  met,  or  like  the 
grave  defiance  of  two  duelists  of  the  Legion  d'Honneur,  as 
they  used  to  doff  their  plumed  hats  and  cry,  "  Guard  your- 
eelll"  before  begiiming  tlie  duel  to  the  death. 

**  We  will  meet  again,"  the  widow  said,  with  her  most  inso- 
lent smile,  "  and  you  will  show  me  the  pictura  of  that  wicked 
dead  person  I  resemble  so  much.    Uutil  then— good-nightl" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IN  THE  prior's  WALK. 

Colonel  Trevanion  rode  homeward  through  the  black* 
rainy  August  night,  on  his  huge  black  horse  Czar,  after  bid- 
ding the  widow  the  briefest  and  coldest  of  farewells. 

As  he  said  good-night  to  Macgregor,  the  eyes  of  the  two 
men  met — an  insolent  smile  of  power  in  the  tenant's,  a  glare 
of  bitter  hate  in  the  landlord's.  A  child  could  have  seen  it 
was  "  war  to  the  death  "  between  these  two. 

Charley  Lemox  tooled  the  author  home  in  his  drag,  and  for 
the  first  two  or  three  miles  the  hermit  of  the  Retreat  puffed 
away  with  vicious  energy  at  his  Manilla,  staring  silently  into 
the  wet  blackness. 

**  Well,"  Charley  said  at  last,  "  you  might  make  an  obser- 
vation, I  think,  if  only  on  the  weather.  Speech  is  silver  and 
silence  is  golden,  very  likely;  but  still,  when  an  auditor  is  by, 
capable  of  appreciating  the  profoundest  remark  you  con  atter« 


ita 


WHO  wnw? 


Sotx  might  break  through  the  golden  ruie  lor  onoe.  There  li 
lie  widow— suppose  we  discuss  hvr.  She's  a  safe  subject;  for, 
•ffadi  she's  been  pretty  thoroughly  dissectci  before  this  at  hall 
the  ainner-tablea  in  tlio  county.  Isn't  eh"  vhic  9  Isu't  she 
charming?  Isu't  she  brilliant?  You  notic.d  her  eyes,  I  sup. 
pose?  Did  you  ever  see  their  equal  in  all  tao  slave-markets  of 
Stamboul,  in  the  head  of  Georgian  or  Circassiau?  And  all 
those  wonderful  coils,  and  braids,  and  curls,  and  ripples  of 
midnight  blackness!    Isn't  it  a  glorious  head  of  hai'*? 

The  hermit  laughed  his  most  cvnical  laugh. 

"  How  old  aro  you,  Charley?  Seventeen  or  eighteen — 
which?  My  dear  little  innocent  Eton  boy,  how  much  of  that 
brilliant  bloom  is  liquid  rouge  and  pearl  white?  How  much  of 
that  starry  luster  do  those  wondrous  eyes  owo  to  the  ghastly 
'brilliance  of  bella'^onna?  And  how  many  of  those  glorious — 
wasn't  that  your  word? — glorious  braids  and  coils  will  Mrs. 
Ingram  put  away  in  boxes  before  she  goes  to  bed?  You  forgot 
to  notice  her  teeth,  didn't  you,  when  you  took  stock?  And 
Heaven  knows  she  smiles  enough  to  show  them!  They  are 
white  and  even  as  two  strings  of  pearls.  But,  my  dear  boy,  I 
shouldn't  in  the  least  wonder  if  she  keeps  them  in  a  tumbler 
of  water  by  her  bedside  until  to-morrow  mornhig.  Made  up! 
Your  widow  is  a  work  of  art,  at  the  price.  But,  oh,  my 
Charles,  the  toilet  goes  before,  and  great  and  mighty  are  the 
mysteries  thereof." 

Charley's  face  of  surprise  and  disgust  was  capital,  but  tha 
darkness  hid  it. 

"Juvenal!  Diogenes!  old  dog  in  the  manger!  You  won't 
admire  her  yourself,  and  you  won't  let  any  one  else.  Aren't 
the  glasses  of  your  lorrjnefte  smoked,  my  friend?  You  see  life 
through  a  black  cloud,  rather,  and  you  hold  women  a  little 
higher  than  your  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  your  horse." 

**  And  why?"  the  author  replied,  coolly.  "  I  hold  them  as 
I  find  them.  They  are  all  virtuous,  untempted;  all  faithful, 
untried;  all  prudent,  unsought.  The  best  of  them,  the  wisest 
of  them,  hold  the  product  of  the  silk- worm,  and  the  skill  of 
their  Parisian  modisfe,  higher  than  all  the  truth  of  earth,  the 
glory  of  heaven.  The  most  faithful  and  leal  among  them  will 
throw  over  a  lord  for  a  duke,  a  duke  for  a  prince;  and  the 
best  wife,  the  most  devoted  mother  in  wide  England,  would 
feel  her  head  spin  and  her  pulses  beat  at  one  smile  of  *  my 
lord  the  king.' " 

"  I  say,  Macgregor,"  Charley  exclaimed,  rather  aghast  at 
this  retsumS,  **  don't  you  ^o  a  leetle  too  fast?  Whc'a  done  for 
joug  and  when  was  it?    You  must  have  been  jilted  in  cold 


WHO   WIOTT 


110 


blood  by  half  a  dozen,  at  least,  of  fhe  fair  flshere  of  men,  to 
leave  you  eo  bitterly  cynical  and  sarcastic  as  this.  Suppose 
they  rtre  painted  ar.d  pearl-powdered?  What  does  it  signify, 
when  it  is  so  artistically  done  that  we  don't  detect  itP  If  Mri. 
Ingram,  in  the  sacred  privaoy  of  her  clmmber,  be  toothless 
and  scrawny,  with  a  complexion  like  a  tallow  candle,  then, 
by  Jove!  let  Mrs.  Ingram  paint  to  her  heart's  content.  Ap 
ugly  woman  is  a  sight  to  naunt  one's  dreams.  If  an  ugly 
woinan  has  the  art  to  make  herself  '  beautiful  forever,'  then 
let  her  crinoline  and  cosmetique  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  A 
man  don't  want  his  mother  or  sister  or  wife  to  kiss  nim  with 
lips  on  which  the  rogue  still  glistens;  but,  outside  of  that — 
oh,  by  Georgel  let  'em  go  it.  We  like  it  on  the  stage — bright- 
ens tnem  np  and  keeps  them  perpetually  young.  Don't  let 
us  make  a  howling  about  it  on  the  greater  stage  of  life." 

Charley  delivered  all  this  in  his  slowest,  softest,  gentlest 
tones. 

The  tenant  of  the  Retreat  laughed  good-naturedlv. 

**  Really,  seventeen  years  old  waxes  eloquent  on  the  subject 
No  matter  how  the  result  is  ohtaind,  so  that  the  result  Ja 
pretty,  eh?  The  seigneur  of  Monkswood  seems  much  of  your 
opinion;  he's  gone  beyond  redemption.  Do  you  suppose  he 
has  proposed  yet?" 

**  Can't  say.  Not  at  all  nnlikely.  He's  fool  enough,  in 
my  opinion,  for  anything,  and  knave  enough  for  more.  But 
it's  no  go,  when  he  does.  She's  made  up  her  mind  to  be  Lady 
Chudleigh,  and  Lady  Chudleigh  she'll  be,  in  spito  of  fate  and 
Sir  Rupert." 

"  Well,  she  flirts  with  Trevanion  very  loudly,  at  least." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  that  pretty  little  Lady  Caprice  flirts  with 
every  one.  She  goes  in  for  Sir  EupiM't  when  she  gets  him 
alone  and  unprotected,  I'll  take  my  oath,  and  makes  pretty, 
roundabout,  feminine  love  to  him  mercilessly.  It's  the  nature 
of  the  little  animal  to  flirt.  I've  seen  her^  A^  hen  there  was  no 
better  quarry  to  spring,  take  hold  of  an  old(;r,  uglier,  sadder, 
wiser  nian  than  Sir  Rupert,  and  soften  his  brains  for  him  in 
ten  minutes.  But  it's  my  opinion,  Mr.  Angus  MacgregOFi 
you  know  more  about  her  than  I  do.  1  can  not  get  over  that 
picture.  Mrs.  Ingram  may  not  be  the  rose,  but  she  is  very 
like  that  splendid  flower.  I  mean  your  *  rose  full  of  thorns,' 
I  don't  want  to  be  impertinent,  but  I'll  be  .langed  if  I  believe 
you  when  you  say  the  re^-emblance  is  only  rjocidental." 

**  Don't  get  excited,  Charley.  Resemblances  are  common 
enough.     They  say  I  look  like  Trevanion,  you  know.'* 

**  So  you  do,  and  yet  you  ilonH,    You  are  bearded,  and 


ito 


WHO    WI»Sf 


there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  of  you  but  a  straight  nose«  two 
black  eyes,  and  a  tremendous  frontal  develoj)ment.  Ouf 
cousin  ^yril  is  the  fortunate  possessor  of  a  straight  nose  and 
two  dark  eyes,  also;  but  there  the  resemblance  ends.  His 
head  tapers  up  like  a  sugar-loaf,  and  his  forehead  slopes  back 
and  contracts  at  tha  temples  in  a  way  that  does  not  speak 
flatteringly  of  the  brain  behind  it.  And  apropos  of  that,  did 
you  ever  notice  the  insane  way  he  glares,  and  the  gah^anio 
twitches  of  his  face  at  times?  He  may  not  be  absolutely  mad, 
but,  in  the  elegantlv  allegorical  language  of  the  day,  *  his 
head's  not  level.'  "  - 

*'  Charley,"  Macgregor  said,  with  some  hesitation,  **  it  is  a 
tolerably  well-known  fact  that  your  sister  used  to  cherish  his 
memory,  to  esteem  him  very  highly.  Is  it  impertinent  to  ask 
if  she  does  so  still?" 

"  No,"  said  Charley,  decidedly.  **  Distance  lent  enchant- 
ment to  the  view.  Sybil  has  been  c:etting  disenchanted  since 
the  iSrst  moment  she  set  eyes  upon  him.  That  little  episode 
of  the  bull  finished  him  in  her  estimation.  A  woman  is  ready 
to  forgive  seventy  times  seven  almost  any  crime  a  man  can 
commit;  but  she  wonH  forgive,  if  she  is  any  way  plucky  her- 
aelf,  an  act  of  cowardice.  Trevanion  showed  the  white  feather 
horribly  that  day,  and  not  all  the  memories  of  battles  fought 
and  won,  in  India  and  Russia,  can  counterbalance  the  flight 
from  the  bull.  He  offei-ed  some  kind  of  limping  apology — 
recent  illness,  nerves,  etc.,  and  my  Lady  Sybil  listened  with 
that  cold,  proud  face  no  one  can  pat  on  to  more  perfection, 
and  responded  by  a  high  and  chilling  bow.  There  is  a  sort  of 
armed  peace  between  them,  and  she  unmistakably  despises 
him  for  his  infatuation  about  the  widow.  No;  Sybil's  hero  is 
Sybil's  hero  no  longer.  I  rather  think  you  have  usurped  his 
place." 

The  face  of  Angus  Macgregor  flushed  deep  red  in  the  dark- 
ness, but  his  steady  voice  was  as  cool  as  ever. 

"  Not  at  all  unlikely.  We — brethren  of  the  pen  and  ink- 
bottle — generally  are  heroes  in  tho  eyes  of  young  ladydom. 
They  read  our  books;  our  dreamy,  misty,  rather  trashy  poems; 
our  sensational  novels,  full  of  subterranean  passages,  sliding 

Sanels,  mysterious  murders,  and  dashing,  slashing,  reckless, 
auntless,  magnificent  heroes,  with  flashing  eyes,  and  raven 
whiskers,  and  flittering  cimeters,  and  they  picture  us  grand- 
iose creatures,  baring  our  white  brows  to  the  midnight  blasts, 
and  raving,  a  la  Bvron,  of  the  perfidy  of  woman  and  the  base- 
ness of  man.  They're  disappointed  sometimes,  when  we 
nddenly  appear  before  them  with  sandy  haur  and  mild  bio? 


WHO  wan? 


vn 


MS,  a  tendency  to  perpetnal  blushes,  and  as  insipid  as  a  mug 
of  milk  and  water.  Miss  Trevanion  is  a  hero-worsiiiper  of  the 
most  approved  kind;  and  when  one  topples  from  his  pedestal, 
she  elevates  another.    Here  we  are  at  the  Retreat.    Thank 


at  whist  last  time,  and  she  is  panting  for  revenge.  Until  then, 
att  revoir.     Don't  dream  of  the  widow;  it's  dangerous." 

Cliarley  whirled  away  in  the  darkness,  and  the  author  en- 
tered his  domicile.  Very  pleasant  the  lighted  windows  looked 
against  the  rainy  blackness  of  the  August  night,  and  very 

S feasant  was  the  old-fashioned  parlor,  lighted  up  with  a  h^ 
ozen  wax  tapers. 

**  Dream  of  the  widow!"  muttered  Macgregor,  between  his 
teelh;  *' widow  forsooth!  No,  I  shall  leave  that  for — Cyril 
Trevanion.  My  faith!  but  they  both  play  their  little  game 
well.  And  she'll  hunt  the  baronet  down,  until  she  bewitches 
him  into  marrying  her,  if  she's  let  alone.  She's  a  clever  little 
devil,  and  I  could  almost  admire  her  pluck,  in  fighting  fate  to 
the  last  and  holding  her  own  against  such  tremendous  odds; 
but  when  I  think  of  her  living  under  the  same  roof,  clasping 

hands,  and  breaking  bread  with  Sybil  Lemox,  by ,     he 

swore  a  deep,  stern  oath — ''  I  can  feel  no  mercy.  My  beauti- 
ful, pure,  proud  Sybil!  if  you  only  knew  what  that  woman  is, 
and  has  been,  you  would  recoil  from  sight  of  her  as  you  would 
from  a  hooded  snake— a  deadly  cobra.  And  I  thought  her 
dead,  and  she  thinks  me  dead,  very  likely.  How  tenacious  of 
life  venomous  reptiles  are!  I  believe  Rose  Dawson  has  more 
lives  than  a  cat.  She  stood  as  much  '  punishment '  from 
Dftwson,  before  she  did  for  him,  as  any  member  of  the  P.  R. 
in  England;  she  has  faced  starvation,  hanging,  sickness;  she 
has  been  knocked  about  like  a  football,  through  every  corner 
of  the  Continent,  and  she  turns  up  here  in  the  end,  hand- 
somer, younger,  more  elegant,  more  insolent  in  her  fadeless 
beauty  than  ever!  But  clever  as  you  are,  and  handsome  aa 
you  are,  my  little  fascinating  Rose,  I  think  you  have  met  your 
match  this  time.  For  fifteen  years  you  have  been  conqueress; 
but  the  big  wheel  spins  around,  and  you  on  the  top  go  down 
and  I  rise  up.  It's  my  turn  now,  and  I'll  show  you  the  same 
mercy  you  snowed  me — the  mercy  you  showed  that  poor  devil, 
Dawson.  I'll  spare  you  no  more  than  I  would  a  raging  tigress 
broken  loose  from  her  jungle.  I  wonder  where  Lady  Lemos 
picked  her  up.  I'll  ascertain  to-morrow.  But  first—" 
He  took  up  the  portfolio  as  he  spoke,  drew  out  the  water* 


m 


WHO  wnraP 


color  sketch,  and  with  a  pen-knife  that  lay  near,  cnt  *t  up 
into  morsels.  He  laughed  grimly  as  he  flung  them  out  into 
the  rain. 

**  I  am  afraid  you  won't  see  the  picture  of  that  '  wicked 
dead  person '  when  nest  we  meet,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ingram. 
And  we'll  take  our  masks  o£  &t  that  meeting,  and  I'll  show 
you  that  dyed  tresses,  rouge,  pearl-powder,  and  a  splendid 
toilet,  can  not  change  Rose  Dawson  out  of  my  knowledge.*' 

Mr.  Macgregor  presented  himself  next  day  at  Trevanion,  as 
the  long  lances  of  sunset  were  glimmering  redly  through  the 
brown  boles  of  the  oaks  and  elms  and  the  atmosphere  seemed 
a  rain  of  ijnpalpable  gold  dust.  He  was  looking  unutterably 
patrician  in  his  evening-dress — tall,  strong  as  some  muscular 
Apollo,  going  rapidly  over  the  ground  with  his  swinging, 
soldierly  stride,  and  his  Livonian  at  his  heels.  For  Mr.  Mac- 
gregor had  been  a  soldier  in  early  youth — he  told  Miss  Tre- 
Tanion  so  one  day — had  held  a  commission  in  a  crack  cavalry 
corps,  and  had  served  in  India. 

**  You  never  knew  my  cousin  there?"  E^bil  had  said, 
thoughtfully.  **  It  is  singular,  too;  Colonel  Trevanion  must 
have  been  serving  in  India  about  the  same  time." 

The  queerest  smile  came,  and  faded,  ou  Colonel  Trevanion'g 
tenant's  face. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon — I  <Ud  see  your  cousin.     He  saw  me, 
too;  but  that  unfortunate  fever,"  Macgregor  laughed,  an  in- 
expressible twinkle  in  his  eye;  "  don't  let  us  forget  that!    He 
left  his  memory  behind  him  in  South  America,  as  I  came  near 
'  leaving  my  liver  behind  me  in  Calcutta." 

**  You  don't  believe  in  that  fever,  Mr.  Macgregor,"  Sybil 
said,  quickly;  "and  yet — it  is  very  strange — there  must  be 
something,  yv>u  know,  (yyril  doesn't  seem  to  recognize  his 
oldest  friend — he  seems  to  recall  no  circumstance  of  the  past  " 
— an  involuntary  glance  at  her  ring — "  the  old  familiar  land- 
marks even  appear  strange  and  unknown.  It  is  so  very,  very 
odd!    Loss  of  memory  mitst  be  the  reason." 

The  hermit  of  the  Retreat  laughed — a  laugh  that  puzzled 
and  provoked  the  heiress — and  that  knowing  light  in  his  dark 
ayes  seemed  to  deepen. 

"You  rind  your  cousin  very  much  changed,  then?  Many 
say  that,  and — not  for  the  better.  Fifteen  years  is  a  long  time 
to  be  an  alien  and  a  wanderer,  a  homeless  pariah,  with  a  bitter 
sorrow  and  disgrace  in  the  past,  and  very  little  in  the  future 
to  look  forward  to.  Disgraced  by  a  vile  woman,  an  old  and 
honored  name,  tainted,  disowned  pnd  disinherited,  shut  out 
IroxK^  the  world  in  which  all  that  is  best  and  brightest  liye^ 


WHO  wijsrsp 


IZ9 


faith  \o8t  in  man  and  woman,  nothing  left  to  wish  for  but  six 
feet  of  Indian  soil,  and  some  friendly  bullet — ah  I  Miss  Tre- 
yauion,  fifteen  years  of  that  sort  of  existence  is  likely  to 
change  any  man. " 

Sybil  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  had  begun  lightly 
enough,  but  he  had  grown  strangely  earnest  ere  he  ceased. 
The  handsome  bronzed  face,  too,  was  a  shade  paler  than  its 
wont. 

'*  You  speak  for  Colonel  Trevanion  very  earnestly,"  she 
said,  "  and  yet — I  beg  your  pardon — but  I  fancied  there  was  a 
bitter  hate  between  you  two." 

Once  more  the  author  slightly  laughed. 

*'  My  dear  Miss  Trevanion,  how  very  subtle  your  instincts 
are,  or  else — how  stupidly  our  faces  must  show  our  feelings. 
We  hate  each  other,  we  could  blow  each  other's  brains  out 
with  all  the  pleasure  in  life;  but  we  don't  make  scenes  in  these 
latter  days.  We  meet  and  we  bow,  and  the  conventional  smiles 
and  small-talk  are  in  full  play;  and  if  we  lived  in  the  pleasant 
Italian-Borgian  times,  we  would  invest  twenty  scudi  in  a  medi- 
cated rose  or  dagger  for  the  man  we  accost  so  politely.  Why, 
the  vendetta  is  the  style  no  longer,  even  in  Corsica." 

*'  Mr.  Macgrcgor,  what  has  my  cousin  ever  done  to  you? 
Why  do  you  hate  him  like  this?" 

**  Hate  him!  1  don^t  hate  him,  Miss  Trevanion — he  rather 
amuses  me  than  otherwise.  I  find  him  a  most  interesting 
study,  and  think  him  the  cleverest  person  I  know  of.  It  is 
the  other  way — lie  hates  me.'' 

Beyond  this  Miss  Trevanion  could  get  nothing  from  Mac- 
gregor,  and  she  was  too  proud  to  ask  questions.  The  tenant 
of  the  Retreat  was  almost  a  daily  visitor  now  at  the  Park, 
where  Lady  Lemox  had  taken  a  decided  liking  to  him  at  once. 
Indeed,  it  was  hard  not  to  like  the  agreeable  hermit  of  Monks- 
wood  Waste,  with  his  frank,  handsome  face,  his  brilliant  con- 
vsrsational  powers,  his   universal  knowledge  of  persons  and 

E laces  and  things,  and  the  unutterable  placidity  with  which 
e  allowed  my  lady  to  win  his  shillixigs  at  long  whist.  He 
played  cards  a  good  deal,  certainly,  and  lost  a  grrat  mauy 
shillings;  but  he  found  time  to  stand  beside  the  piano  also, 
and  turn  over  Sybil's  music,  and  listen  to  the  full  soprano 
tones  rising  and  falling  silvery.  In  the  rich  warmth  of  the 
August  nights,  with  the  ivory  moonlight  brilliant  in  the  rose- 
gardens  and  on  the  lawn,  tie  stood  looking  down  again  and 
again  into  the  pale,  beautiful  face,  the  darK  eyes  inexpressibly 
tender  and  soft  and  dewy. 
As  he  came  striding  thrcu^^  the  lont;  English  grass,  whist* 


m 


WHO   WIKSf 


ling  the  **Macgregors'  March,"  he  saw  a  slender,  girlish 
figure  on  the  lawu,  a  tall  figure  in  floating,  misty  rohes,  of 
black,  a  necklace  and  cross  of  jet  and  gold  her  only  ornameat, 
a  spray  of  white  lily-buds  twisted  in  the  dark  richness  of  hor 
hair.  That  willowy  figure,  with  its  indescribably  proud,  high- 
bred air,  was  very  familiar  to  the  tall  Macgregor.  It  turned 
at  his  approach,  and  the  color  arose  to  the  delicate  cheeks, 
and  added  light  to  the  lovely  violet  eyes,  as  she  frankly  held 
out  her  hand. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Macgregor — mamma  has  been  fidget- 
ing unpleasantly  all  day  for  fear  you  might  not  come.  She 
likes  to  utilize  her  evenings.  Cyril,  down,  sir!  Sybil,  hold 
you.*  noisy  tongue!  don't  you  know  Herr  Faustus  before  this?" 

For  Miss  Trevanion's  poodle  and  mastiff  were  making  ag- 
gressive demonstrations  toward  tlie  long,  lean  wolf-hound,  who 
showed  his  formidable  teeth  in  one  long  bass  growl. 

"  Cyril  and  Sybil  are  evidently  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
each  other,  at  least,"  Maegrc;;or  said,  with  a  glance  at  their 
mistress  that  deepened  the  carnation;  "'and  they  look  upon 
Doctor  Faustus  and  his  master  as  unwarrantable  intruders. 
Apropos,  I  met  the  original  Cyril,  with  Czar,  in  full  gallop, 
making  for  his  divinity,  the  most  witching  of  widows.  Did  he 
eter  read  Pickwick,  I  wonder,  and  the  immortal  warning  of 
the  great  Weller?" 

Miss  Trevanion  laughed,  but  rather  constrainedly.  Cyril 
Trevanion  had  been  her  hero  once,  her  cousin  always;  he  bore 
the  grand  old  name,  the  same  blood  ran  in  his  veins,  and  now 
the  merest  mention  of  him  mad"  her  wince. 

"Gwendoline  was  here  today — poor/  dear  Gwen!  Mrs. 
Ingram  will  be  her  death,  and  she  told  me  you  were  at  Chud- 
leigh  Chase  last  night.  You  met  Mrs.  Ingram,  and  you  like 
her,  0*  course?" 

**  I  don't  perceive  the  *  of  course.'  .  Yes,  I  met  Mrs.  In- 
gram (she  chose  rather  an  aristocratic  cognomen  this  time), 
and  I  recognized  a  voman  I  knew  fifteen  years  ago." 

**  Then  her  name  is  not  Ingram,  and  she  u  an  advent- 
uress!" Sybil  cried.  "  I  thought  sol  I  thought  so!  I  never 
believed  in  her  from  thn  first." 

"Yes,  Miss  Trevanion,  she  is  an  adventuress,  one  who 
should  never  sleep  under  the  same  roof  or  eat  at  the  same  ta- 
ble with  1/ou.  A  bad,  bold  woman,  a  dangerous  woman,  an 
unscrupulous  woman,  and  a  deadly  fee.  Your  mother  brought 
her  here — where  did  her  ladyship  Huo.  her?" 

"  In  Scotland,  at  Gtrathbane  Castle.  She  was  companion 
to  tba  daohess;  and  when  her  grace  died  she  came  to  nriammtt. 


WHO  wnref 


IM 


It  was  at  Baden  or  Homburg— some  one  of  the  German  Bada 

—that  the  duchess  met  her  first." 

"  A  most  likely  place.  Now,  Miss  Trevanion,  if  you  will 
not  think  me  impertinently  intjuisitive,  1  should  like  to  heap 
all  the  story  of  General  Trevaiiion's  mysterious  disappearance. 
I  heard  your  mother  once  hint  that,  in  some  way,  you  blamed 
Mrs.  Ingram.  lip  to  the  present  I  have  heard  but  a  very 
garbled  account  of  that  disappearance.  I  was  absent  from 
bpeckhaven  at  the  time  it  occurred.  It  Mrs.  Ingram  had  any 
motive  in  making  away  with  the  general,  Mrs.  Ingram  woul^ 
no  more  hesitate  over  the  deed  than  would  Lucrezia  Borgia. 
Will  you  tell  me  the  story  of  that  night?" 

*'  Most  willingly.  But,  Mr.  Macgregor,  really  you  are 
enough  to  make  one's  blood  run  cold.  Surely  Mrs.  Ingram 
can  not  be  the  fiendess  you* paint  her.  And  then  there  was  no 
motive — there  could  be  none.  Ajid,  besides —  Oh!  Mr.  Mac- 
gregor, it  is  the  darkest  and  most  impenetrable  of  mysteries. 
How  could  she,  one  weak  Avoman,  make  away  with  General 
Trevaniou.^  If  the  earth  had  opened  and  swalloived  him,  be 
could  not  have  vanished  more  completely." 

"  I  should  like  to  examine  the  room  in  which  he  lay — the 
'  Adam  and  Eve,'  was  it  not?  I  loill  examine  the  room.  And 
Mrs.  Ingram  was  alone  with  your  patient  all  that  night?" 

"  By  no  means.  Mrs.  Telfer  was  in  the  chamber  with  her; 
Cleante  in  the  dressing-room  adjoining.  But  they  both  slept 
80  soundly  that — Heaven  forgive  me  I — I  have  sometimes  fan- 
cied they  may  have  been-  drugged.  I  had  gone  to  my  apart- 
ment, and,  weary  with  watching,  had  fallen  soundly  asleep. 
Precisely  at  midnight  I  woke,  by  hearing,  or  fancying"  I  heard, 
a  bell  tolling." 

**  Ah!"  Macgregor  said,  "  the  ghostly  bell  of  the  Trevan- 
ions.     And  then?" 

"  I  was  silly  and  superstitious,  I  suppose — nervous,  certain- 
ly. I  got  up,  threw  on  my  dressing-gown,  and  hastened  to  the 
sick-room.  Cleante  and  Mrs.  Telfer  were  asleep,  as  I  said, 
and  Mrs.  Ingram  was  bending  over  the  bed,  where  my  uncle 
lay  in  a  deep  stupor,  searching,  as  I  imagined,  under  the  pillow 
for  the  will." 

**  The  will?    What  will?" 

"  A  will  he  had  made  a  day  or  two  before— a  will  that  leffc 
all  his  fortune,  as  it  should  have  been  left,  to  his  only  son. 
He  kept  it  under  his  pillow,  and  I  at  first  imagined  she  wa» 
trying  to  find  it.  But  that,  of  course,  was  absurd.  What 
earthly  use  was  the  will  to  her?  Before  I  could  speak,  to  my 
horror^  the  sick  man  sat  up  in  bed,  and  grasped  her  by  th# 


tn 


WHO  wisnif 


wrist,  crying  out  to  take  her  away,  she  was  trying  to  murder 
him.  He  fell  back,  with  the  words  on  his  lips,  in  dull  stupor 
once  more,  and  Mrs.  Ingram  turned  round  and  saw  me." 

"Yes.     Well?" 

He  was  vividly  interested,  you  could  see. 

"  Mrs.  Ingrain  looked  startled  for  an  instant,  and  very,  very 
pale;  but  she  was  herself  again  directly.  She  explained  that 
she  was  settling  the  pillows,  and  that  he  had  been  resting  oui- 
etly  all  along.  I  wished  to  remain — ah,  would  to  Heaven  tnat 
I  had! — but  she  would  not  listen  to  me.  She  insisted  upon  my 
going  back.  She  was  not  in  the  least  tired  or  sleepy;  she 
would  watch  until  morning.  I  let  her  overrule  me.  I  went 
back,  and  again  slept,  and  slept  soundly.  It  was  late  when  I 
awoke  and  went  back  to  the  sick-r^om.  The  valet  and  house- 
keeper still  slumbered,  and  this  time  Mrs.  Ingram  also.  And 
the  bed  was  empty— the  will  and  the  dying  man  gone!  My 
scream  awoke  Cleante  and  Telfer  at  once,  but  not  Mrs.  In- 
gram. 

*t  When  she  did  awake,  alter  a  sound  shaking,  she  was  ut- 
terly bewildered — could  tell  nothing.  She  had  dropped  asleep, 
unconsciously — her  patient  was  all  safe  in  bed  the  last  she  re- 
membered.    She  knew  no  more." 

Macgregor  listened  in  silence,  his  brows  drawn,  a  look  of 
dark  intensity  in  his  face. 

.  *'  You  have  heard  of  the  search  that  was  made,"  Sybil  con- 
tinued; "  long  and  thorough,  and  in  vain.  The  secret  of 
Monkswood  Waste  is  its  secret  still — ^r'ell  kept.  I  know  noth- 
ing against  Mrs.  Ingram.  Common  sense  in  every  way  proves 
it  to  be  an  absurdity  that  she  can  in  any  manner  be  impli- 
cated. And  yet —  Oh,  Mr.  Macgregor,  help  me  if  you  can. 
Fathom  this  terrible  mystery,  and  I  will  thank  you  forever!  I 
thought  when  Cyril  came —  But  Cyril  /tas  come,  and  what 
does  he  care?  The  woman  who  slept  on  her  post,  by  his  fa- 
ther's dying  bed,  holds  him  fettered  body  and  soul.  He  has 
no  thought,  by  night  or  by  day,  but  for  her." 

The  passionate,  impetuous  tears  started  to  her  eyes.  She 
turned  away  proudly,  lest  he  should  see.  But  Macgregor's 
dark  eyes  saw  most  things,  and  his  face  clouded  a  little  now. 

**  And  do  you  care?"  he  asked  in  a  deep,  intense  voice, 
,**  whom  he  loves  or  whom  he  hates?  Can  it  signify  to  Miss 
Trevanion?" 

The  question  might  have  been  insolent  on  any  other  lips, 
and  haughty  Sybil  might  have  turned  upon  him  in  amazed 
anger.  But,  somehow— ah!  v/ho  knows  why? — it  was  Mac- 
gregor who  spoke;  and  the  delicate  face  drooped  away,  and 


WHO  wisrif 


i«r 


the  lovely,  transient  g/ow  arose  and  faded^  and  the  haughty 
heart  fluttered  under  her  sable  corsage. 

** No/'  she  said,  "it  is  nothing  to  me — less  than  nothing. 
But  I  loved  my  uncle  very  dearly,  Mr.  Macgregor,  and  Cviil 
is  his  son.  Once  I  loved  him,  too— long  ago — a  little  child  of 
four— when  he  was,  oh,  so  different.  He  gave  me  this  ring. 
I  have  worn  it  for  his  sake  for  fifteen  years.  I  will  never  wear 
it  again!** 

She  drew  it  off. 

There  was  a  sparkle  of  light;  then  it  was  flung  impetuously 
into  the  depths  of  the  fish-pond,  a  glittering  morsel  for  pike 
and  perch. 

"  Let  the  waters  take  it,"  she  said,  "  less  faithless  than  he! 
And  you  promise  me,  Mr.  Macgregor,  you  will  do  your  best  to 
help  me  in  this  dreadful  ""'^rkness  which  shrouds  the  poor  gen- 
eral's fate?" 

**  I  promise.  Miss  Trcvanion.  I  will  do  my  utmost,  and 
succeed,  if  J.  can,  where  the  best  detective  of  Scotland  Yard 
failed.  The  mystery  of  Monkswood  will  be  a  mystery  no 
lonsrer,  if  mortal  man  can  solve  it.  I  will  do  my  best,  I  prona- 
ise.''' 

He  held  out  his  hand.  He  had  long,  slim  feet  and  hands 
— intensely  patrician — and  Sybil  laid  her  delicate  rose-leaf 
palm  therein,  with  still  another  roseate  blush.  It  was  quite  a 
new  trick  on  Sybil's  part — this  blushing — and  became  her 
beautifully. 

•*  How  kind  it  is  of  you!"  she  said,  grateful  tears  standing 
in  her  eyes.  She  seemed  so  utterly  alone,  poor  child,  in  her 
axixiety,  and  this  matter  was  so  very  near  her  heart.  '*  They 
say,  Mr.  Macgregor,  all  authors  are  more  or  less  like  their  work; 
but  you  are  not  in  the  least  like  yours.''* 

"  Nicer,  I  hope?"  the  author  suggested. 

"  Ever  so  much  nicer!'*  the  young  lady  answered,  saucily. 
"  I  don't  half  like  your  tone  in  print;  and  the  sneering,  sar- 
castic, bitterly  cynical  way  you  speak  of  women  is  simply  false 
and  detestable.  You  may  say  what  you  please,  sir — you  and 
the  rest  of  the  cold-blooded  cynics — but  there  are  women 
alive — hosts  of  them — true  and  tender  and  faithful,  and  good 
10  the  core." 

How  beautiful  she  looked!  the  cheeks  brightly  flushed,  the 
violet  eyes  flashing,  the  proud  little  head  thrown  back,  Ah^ 
Angus  Macgregor,  your  cynical  heart  needs  a  triple  corselet  6f 
steel  to  ward  olf  the  blind  god's  arrows  shot  from  those  killing 
eyes  of  blue  I 

"  I  believ^  it  now,"  he  said,  very  quietly.    **  I  did  not  hv* 


«» 


w 


WHO  wnni? 


i; 


2ord.  I  spoke  of  women  as  I  found  them.  I  can  neyer  epeak 
oiE  them  like  that  again.'' 

And  then  he  lifted  the  fair  white  hand  to  his  lips  and 
kiesed  it,  and  let  it  full.  And  the  diuner-bell  rang,  and 
Charley's  serene  face  appeared  suddenly  through  the  hazel 
bashes  skirting  the  fish  pond  near. 

*•  Are  you  two  flirting  or  fighting?  You  look  tremendously 
in  earnest;  and  really,  how  oup  is  to  be  in  earnest  about  any- 
thing, with  the  thermometer  at  boiling  heat—  Let's  go  to 
dmner." 

The  effort  of  speaking  had  exhausted  him;  he  was  unable  to 
finish  his  own  sentence.     They  went  to  dinner,  where  my  lady 

greeted  them,  and  did  the  most  of  the  talking.  For  the  heat 
ad  wilted  Charley,  and  left  him  nothing  on  earth  to  say;  and 
Sybil,  in  a  **  tremor  of  sweet  blisses,"  falling  fatally  in  love, 
though  she  did  not  know  it,  eat  something — who  knows  what? 
— and  hardly  looked  across  once  at  the  dark  tenant  of  the  Ke- 
treat. 

Lady  Lemox  and  Mr.  Macgregor  sat  down  in  the  lamp-lit 
drawing-room  to  their  eternal  whist;  and  my  lady  made  a 
good  thing  out  of  the  author's  preoccupation,  and  won  two  or 
three  handfuls  of  shillings.  And  Sybil,  away  m  a  corner 
where  the  piano  stood,  and  the  lamp-light  never  came,  played 
dreamy  improvisations,  with  a  quiet,  tender  happiness  in  her 
face.  The  moonlight  fell  on  the  graceful,  girlisli  figure,  the 
stately  little  head,  the  delicate,  perfect  profile,  and  the 
ftuthor's  eyes  wandered  often  from  the  cards  to  that  fairy  vis- 
ion. It  was  late  when  he  went  away,  and  Sybil  said  good- 
night with  a  shy  grace  all  new,  and  "  beauty's  bright  tran- 
sient glow  "  coming  and  going  in  her  exquisite  face.  It  was 
late  when  he  left,  late  when  he  reached  the  Betreat,  his  pretty 
home,  hidden  as  the  covert  of  a  stag  amid  the  towering  elms 
and  beeches;  but  not  too  late  for  working  and  smoking,  it  ap- 
peared. He  threw  off  his  dress-coat,  lighted  a  cigar,  drew  a 
pile  of  MSS.  before  him,  and  sat  down  to  writs;  and  while  the 
summer  night  wore  on,  he  smoked  and  he  wrote,  the  pen 
scrawling  at  a  railroad  pace  over  the  paper,  the  only  stoppages 
when  he  paused  to  ignite  a  fresh  Havana.  The  rosy  glimmer 
of  the  new  day  was  lighting  the  east  wheu  he  pushed  the  MSS. 
from  him  and  arose. 

**  Four  o'clock,"  he  said.  **  Time  for  a  constitutional  under 
the  trees,  before  coffee  and  turning  in."  , 

He  put  on  his  shooting-jacket  and  went  out.  The  early 
Angusv  morning,  down  there  in  the  heart  of  Monkswood,  was 
InexpreBsibly  peaceful  and  stiU.    The  dew  glittered  on  grass 


WHO  wurs? 


1X9 


and  fern,  the  soaring  larks  bnrst  forth  in  their  matin  psalms^ 
the  air  was  sweet  wjth  its  freshness  and  woodland  perfume, 
and  the  stillness  of  some  primeval  wilderness  reigned. 

The  author  turned  in  tne  Prior's  Walk — the  grand  old  ave- 
nue where  so  often  the  hmjted  monks  had  paced,  telling  their 
beads.  He  had  sauntered  about  half-way  down,  when  he  sud- 
denly stopped  and  drew  back,  for  at  the  other  opening  a  man 
and  a  woman  stood,  where,  at  that  hour,  he  would  have  looked 
for  no  one — where,  at  any  hour,  few  ever  came.  They  were 
standing  very  still,  talking  very  earnestly,  and  in  the  man, 
tall,  dark,  and  muscular,  he  recognized  at  first  glance  Cyril 
Trevanion. 

But  the  woman — who  was  she?  Surely  not  the  widow?  No. 
She  turned  her  face  toward  him  even  as  the  thought  croseed 
his  mind,  and  self-possessed  as  Macgregor  was,  he  barely  re- 

Eressed  an  exclamation  of  amazement  as  his  eyes  tell  upon  her 
ice. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

UNDER  PETTICOAT  GOVERNMENT. 

iT  was  old  Hester— Crazy  Hester,  the  witch,  the  fortune- 
teller— who  stood  facing  the  lord  of  Monkswood  Priory,  in  the 
rosy  dawn  of  the  new  day,  leaning  on  her  staff,  with  her  weird 
face  and  weird,  witch-like  dress,  looking  very  like  one  of  the 
three  beldames  who  accosted  the  Thane  of  Cawdor  on  the 
blasted  heath  of  Fores. 

Angus  Macgregor  barely  repressed  a  whistle  of  intense  sur- 
prise.    Then  suddenly  his  face  cleared  and  brightened. 

"  Hawksley  told  me  there  was.  an  old  grandam  somewhere, 
and,  by  all  that's  sensational,  it  turns  out  to  be  old  Hester. 
the  witch!  I  always  fancied  there  was  method  in  the  cute  old 
fortune-teller's  madness;' and,  by  Jove!  if  she  is  the  grandam, 
she's  the  cleverest  old  lady  in  England.  Shall  1  play  eaves- 
dropper for  once?  It  is  for  Sybil's  sake.  I  am  not  a  partio 
ularly  humble  Christian,  but  I  think  I  could  stoop  to  even 
lower  degradation— if  there  le  a  lower  deep  than  eavesdrop- 
pinff — for  her  sake." 

He  stood  quite  still,  screened  completely  by  the  huge 
branches  of  a  giant  elm,  seeing  them  plainly,  yet  all  unseen. 
The  tableau  was  worthy  more  spectators.  The  old  woman--* 
withered,  wrinkled,  Indian-colored— i^tood  wiih  both  hands 
clasped  on  the  head  of  a  stout  cane,  a  red  cotton  handkerchiel 
knotted  under  her  chin,  her  locks  of  eld  fluttering  scantily  b^ 
neath,  two  piercing  black  e^s  fixed  fiercely  on  the  ta^  iboft 


'm 


ido 


WHO    WIKSf 


her.  And  Cyril  Trevanion  stood  with  folded  ftrms,  silent, 
moodv,  sulky,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  creensward,  a  look  of  sul* 
len  fmr  in  his  swarthy  face.  He  had  muttered  something 
Burliiy  between  his  teeth,  and  the  old  ^"Oman's  glittering  eyes 
flashed  fire,  and  the  whole  face  flamed  red  with  anger. 

*'  You're  a  fool,  Cyril  Trevanion!"  she  cried,  passionately, 
striking  her  stick  upon  the  ground;  "  too  great  a  fool  to  try 
and  play  knave.  Worse,  you're  a  coward!  Do  3'ou  ihinki 
don't  know  how  you  ran  like  a  frightened  school-boy  the 
other  day,  and  left  the  girl,  who  thouq^ht  you  a  hero,  to  face 
an  angry  bull  alone?  Another  man  cime  to  her  rescue,  and 
you — you  cut  a  fine  figure,  coming  crawling  back,  shame- 
faced and  sheepish!  You  a  Trevanion,  forsooth!  1  tell  you," 
striking  her  stick  again,  and  raising  her  voice  to  a  shrill, 
cracked  treble,  *'  I  am  ashamed  of  you  myself!'' 

"  Hadn't  you  better  arouse  the  parish?''  Oyril  Trevanion 
said,  T-ith  a  suppressed  oath.  "IE  you  only  sent  for  me  heie 
to  begin  your  old  nagging,  you  may  as  well  let  me  go.  If  I'm 
a  coward,  I  must  have  inherited  it  from  your  side  of  the  house. 
The  Trevanions,  at  least,  were  never  that." 

*'  Nor  ingrates,"  cried  the  old  woman,  bitterly.  **  But  a 
fool  and  a  coward  is  ahuays  an  ingrate.  \V^ab  did  you  come 
to  this  place  for?  Tell  me  that.  Was  it  to  woo  and  win  the 
heiress  of  Trevanion,  with  her  splendid  beauty,  her  splendid 
dowry,  her  grand  old  lineage,  or  not?  And  what  do  you  do? 
You  see  a  wax-doll  widow,  a  penniless  adventuress,  and  you 
go  mad  and  blind  and  besotted  lor  love  of  her.  Fool!  dolt! 
driveler!  Why  did  I  nob  leave  you  to  starve,  or  rot,  or  die  a 
dog's  death  in  a  ditch,  as  you  deserve?  You  allow  the  golden 
prize  to  slip  through  your  fingeis,  between  your  idiocy  and 
your  cowardice,  and  you  run  after  this  painted,  penniless  gov- 
erness, who  laughs  at  you  for  your  pains!" 

The  rage  flaming  in  the  fierce  old  face,  in  the  flashing  old 
eyes,  in  the  high,  cracked  voice,  was  something  quite  appall- 
ing. The  man  before  hei*  shrunk  like  a  whipped  hound.  Hib 
fear  of  her  was  unmistakable. 

**  I  will  endure  it  no  longer — not  one  day  longer!"  old 
Hester  went  vehemently  on.  '*  Drop  the  widow  and  win  the 
heiress,  or  dread  the  consequences!  You  aro  afraid  of  me, 
Cyril  Trevanion,  and  you  have  re;:iSon  to  be!" 

"  I  have  reason  to  be  afiaid  of  a  good  many  people,"  the 
heir  of  Monkswcod  retorted,  stung  into  sullen  defiance.  "  I 
believe  in  my  soul  I'll  go  down  to  the  sea  yonder,  some  fine 
day,  and  make  an  end  of  it  all.  What  with  your  nagging  and 
my  own  plotting,  and  runoing  the  lisk  of  discovery  every  hour 


WHO   WINSP 


m 


of  the  day,  my  life  is  not  bo  pleasant,  Lord  knows,  thit  I 
should  wi^n  to  keep  it.  1  met  a  man  last  night-— oune  himl 
—and  ho  knows  who  I  am  as  well  as  you  do.*' 

**  Where  did  you  meet  him?    Who  is  he?*' 

**  I  met  him  at  Chudleigh.  He  calls  himself  Ansai  Mao> 
gregor — an  autlior,  or  something  of  the  sort — and  ne  is  the 
tenant  of  the  Retreat.  That  stupid  fool,  Reedworth,  rented  it 
before  I  came  here;  and  he  as  good  as  told  me,  last  night,  he 
had  seen  me  at — " 

He  stopped  and  grasped  his  throat,  like  a  man  half  choke'd. 

**  At  Toulon,"  Unislied  the  old  woman,  coolly.  **  Very 
likely  he  did.  Pve  heard  of  him,  and  he  has  been  a  great 
traveler.  He  may  fancy  he  has  seen  you.  He  will  find  it 
difficult  to  prove  it,  and  he  will  hesitate  before  slandering  a 
gentleman  in  your  position.  But  you're  an  idiot,  as  I  told  yon, 
and  worse  than  an  idiot,  to  linger  here  at  all.  Marry  SybiB 
Lemox  and  take  her  out  of  the  country.  Avoid  France  and 
England  as  you  would  a  pestilence.  The  Co:.tinent  is  wido. 
You  may  snap  your  fingers  at  the  whole  world,  if  you  possess 
common  prudence,  with  General  Trevanion  s  heiress  for  your 
wife.'* 

**  She  will  not  marry  me,**  Cyril  Trevanion  said,  moodily. 
"  She  disliked  me  from  the  first;  she  barely  tolerates  me  now. 
I  believe  in  my  soul,'*  with  a  deep  oath,  *'  she  is  half  in  love- 
with  that  infernal  Macgregor  ever  since — ** 

"  Ever  since  ho  saved  her  life — ever  since  jow  ran  away," 
interrupted  the  fortune-teller,  with  sneering  emphasis.  **  It 
is  very  likely  indeed.  Gh,  poor,  weak,  miserable  cowardi 
Why  did  I  not  disown  you  at  your  birth?  You,  with  all  the 
chances  ever  man  had  to  win  and  marry  her  out  of  hand,  let 
them  slip  one  by  one,  and  allow  a  stranger  to  step  in  and 
bear  off  the  prize!  No  wonder  she  hardly  tolerates  you — 
moody,  sullen,  silent,  making  an  infatuated  fool  of  yourself 
about  a  simpering  doll  of  a  widow,  and  treating  her,  the 
proudest  girl  in  England,  with  gloomy  indifference.  But  I  tell 
you  to  beware  of  me !  Don't  rouse  my  anger  any  higher — 
aon*t,  I  warn  you.  You  know  what  I  am.  Give  up  your 
sickening  folly;  devote  yourself  to  Miss  Trevanion;  woo  her, 
win  her — old  love  and  smoldering  embers  are  easily  rekindled 
—marry  her;  take  her  out  of  England,  and  do  it  at  once." 

She  struck  her  stick  fiercely  into  the  yielding  sod  and 
turned  to  go.  The  man  before  her  stood  motionless  as  a  fig- 
ure of  dark  marble. 

"  And  if  she  refuses?"  he  said,  between  his  teeth. 

''Then  look  to  yourself.    It  will  be  my  turn  toaot  thSBt 


Itl 


WHO    WIK8? 


and  yoa  will  eee  what  mercy  I  will  show  yon.  If  she  refusoa, 
and  pereists  in  refusing,  there  will  bo  no  one  on  earth  to 
blame  but  yourself.  I  will  show  you  then  how  I  treat  fooli 
and  ingrates!'' 

She  nobbled  away;  she  reached  the  end  of  the  avenue;  then 
she  turned  round. 

Cyril  Trevaiiion  still  stood  whore  she  had  loft  him,  his  fuco 
literally  black  with  rago  and  fear  and  hatred. 

"  When  Sybil  Lemox  Trovanion  says  yes,  come  to  me  and 
tell  me,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  see  your  face  before 
that." 

"  And  if  she  says  no  ?'*  ground  out  through  his  set  teeth. 

"  Then  I  will  come  to  yov;  and  Iho  day  that  sees  me  come 
will  make  you  wish  you  had  novcr  boon  born!" 

She  turned  this  timo  and  hobbled  out  of  sight;  and  Cyril 
Trevanion  threw  one  arm  over  the  branch  of  a  tree  and  laid 
his  face  thereon. 

**  *  Wish  I  had  never  been  born!'  "  he  repeated,  with  in- 
describable bitterness.  **MyGod!  how  of  tun  have  I  wished 
that !  Th'^.y  say  my  mother  died  raving  mad.  I  think  my 
mother's  son  is  likely  to  follow  her  c  lamplc.  Plester — Mac- 
greeor — Mrs.  Ingram;  I  have  reason  to  fear  the  three;  aud 
Sybil  Trevanion — beautiful,  gentle,  and  sweet — I  fear  most  of 
ail." 

He  stood  there  so  long,  motionless,  his  face  lying  on  his 
arm,  that  Angus  Macgregor  came  out  from  his  leafy  screen, 
coolly  struck  a  match,  and  lighted  a  cigar. 

"  JPoor  devil!"  he  said;  "  it's  not  a  bed  of  roses.  This  poor 
wretch  who  fights  with  fate,  according  to  his  light,  and  tries  to 
'better  himself,'  like  a  man's  valet,  gets  badgered  and  both- 
ered and  hunted  down  on  all  hands,  until  even  his  worst  en- 
emy might  afford  to  pity  him;  and  I  suppose  /  ought  to  be 
that." 

He  sauntered  out  up  the  avenue,  deliberately,  to  the  spot 
where  Cyril  Trevanion  stood.  At  the  sound  of  the  approach- 
ing footsteps,  the  heir  of  Monkswood  lifted  his  head  and  stared 
at  the  unexpected  apparition,  with  the  wild,  hunted  look  of  a 
stag  at  bay. 

*'  Colonel  Trevanion,  I  believe,"  Macgregor  said,  quietly, 
as  though  it  were  noonday  and  the  Prior's  Walk  the  high- 
road. "  I  had  no  idea  vou  were  fond  of  day-break  constitu- 
tionals. We  poor  devils  of  scribblers,  who  sit  up  half  tho  night 
over  our  foolscap  and  our  last  highly  sensational  chapter,  find 
this  sort  of  thing  necessary.  Don't  let  me  disturb  you,  I'm 
going  back,  and  going  to  bed.     Good-moixnug.** 


i( 


WHO    WZ2CS  f 


in 


He  strolled  away,  puffing  energetically.  His  landlord  htd 
not  spoken,  nor  attempted  to  speak.     Ho  v.  is  ghastly  pale. 

*'  I  have  eased  ray  conscience  a  little  by  showing  myself," 
Macgregor  said,  enteriiig  his  domitnlo.  "  I  can^t  say  I  find 
listening  pleasant.  And  so  he's  to  woo  and  win  Sybilr  Ah, 
well,  we'll  seel  As  the  Turks  sav,  Kismet !  What  is  written, 
is  writtenl" 


CHAPTER  XTII. 

THE   WIDOW  Or^NS  THE  BATTLE. 

On  that  rainy  night,  while  Charley  Lemox  drove  the  tenant 
of  the  Ketreat  through  the  darkness,  the  elegant  widow  had 
eailed  away  to  her  room,  her  tiiiken  splendor  trailing  behind 
her,  always  serpentine  in  its  glimmering  twists,  her  jewels 
sparkling,  her  ribbons  fluttering. 

She  kissed  Miss  Chudleigh,  on  the  upper  landing,  andgayly 
bid  her  "  Good-night,  and  pleasant  d reams,''  as  she  swept  mto 
her  own  room. 

Perhaps  the  agreeable  widow  had  her  charitable  wish,  for 
Gwendoline's  dreams  were  apt  to  be  pleasant,  with  the  angelio 
faces  of  the  cornets  and  ensigns  from  Speckhaven  beaming 
luminous  through  the  rosy  clouds  of  sleep. 

But  her  own  dreams,  waking  and  sleeping,  were  not  pleas- 
ant. She  sunk  down  into  a  chair,  a  miracle  of  amber  satin 
and  downy  puffiness,  and  the  smiles,  and  the  radiance,  and 
the  happy  brightness  dropped  away  from  face  and  eyes,  like  a 
mask,  and  left  a  dark,  brooding,  careworn  countenance  in 
their  stead. 

She  elevated  her  slim,  arched  feet,  clad  in  the  daintiest  of 
high-heeled  bottvAca,  upon  the  steel  fender,  and  frowned 
thoughtfully  into  the  fire.  For  all  the  rooms  at  Chudleigh 
Chase  were  vast,  and  apt  to  be  chilly,  and  Mrs.  Ingram  was  as 
fond  of  warmth  and  light  as  a  tropical. bird.  So,  these  August 
evenings,  a  wood-firo  glowed  in  the  grate,  and  rendered  super- 
fluous the  wax  tapers  burning  on  the  dressing-table. 

Long  after  all  the  household  were  at  rest,  long  after  Mr. 
A"^gus  Macgregor,  her  bugbear,  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the 
just.  Miss  Chudleigh's  governess  sat  there,  with  that  darkly 
frowning  face,  staring  at  the  red  coals. 

"  Who  is  this  jnanr"  she  thought — **  this  mysterious  hermit 
of  Monkswood  Retreat,  who  knows  me,  and  who  knows  that 
other  impostor  calling  himself  Cyril  Trevanionr'  Can  it  be — 
could  it  be,  in  spite  of  all,  the  real  Cyril  Trevauion,  alive  and 
in  the  flesh?" 


184 


WHO    WINS? 


The  next  moment  she  could  have  laughed  aloud  at  her  own 
foUv  in  even  supposing  such  an  impossibility. 

Cyril  Trev anion  sleeps  his  last  sleep  under  the  mighty 
Pacific.  On  this  earth  he  will  trouble  us  no  more.  This  man 
Macgregor  may  have  known  him,  may  have  seen  my  portrait. 
But  what  can  he  really  do?  He  can't  have  me  tried  a^ain  for 
that  deed  done  nineteen  years  ago  in  Leamington  WccJ.  A 
stolid  British  jury  sat  on  that  before,  and  twelve  pig-headed 
jurymen  brought  in  a  verdict  of  not  guilty.  And  except  that 
once  I  never  left  myself  amenable  to  the  majesty  of  the  law. 
No,  I  may  safely  defy  this  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor,  I  think,  in 
spite  of  his  knowledge — and  he  canH  be  positive  as  to  my 
identity.  He  may  tell  the  baronet  all  he  knows — that  I  am  an 
improper  person — a  murderess  " — she  shuddered  slightly  at 
the  word — "  the  intriyiianie  who  entrapped  Cyril  Trevaniou 
into  marriage — a  wicked,  worthless  adventuress.  But  v/ill  the 
baronet  believe  the  monstrous  tale?  Cyril  Trevanion  is  here. 
Ijet  him  ask  Cyril  Trevanion  if  I  am  the  dreadful  creature  he 
married  so  many  years  ago.  I  will  deny  all,  and  Cyril  Tre- 
vanion will  deny  all,  and  1  defy  the  clever  author  to  produce 
proofs.  Perhaps,  also,  he  may  say  the  Cyril  Trevanion  of  the 
present  is  not  the  Cyril  of  the  past;  and  in  that  case,  I  fancy 
Sir  Rupert  himself  will  be  the  first  to  set  him  down  a  mad- 
man. Suppose  I  take  the  initiative,  and  concoct  some  clever 
stjry  for  the  baronet  to-morrow?  I  have  staked  all  upon  the 
last  throw  of  the  dice,  and  I  am  willing  to  abide  the  issue.  I 
will  never  go  back  to  the  old  life — to  that  horrible  region  where 
all  the  women  are  false  as  their  painted  faces,  and  all  the  men 
are  knaves  and  brutes.  I  will  be  Lady  Cliudleigh  in  spite  of 
fate  and  Angus  Macgregor!" 

She  arose  at  last — it  was  past  three  by  her  watch.  The  fire 
had  smoldered  out — the  wax-lights  cast  flickering,  fantastic 
shadows  upon  the  dusk  oak  paneling,  and  the  widow  shivered 
with  a  sense  of  chill.  She  walked  over  to  the  toilet-table,  and 
began  to  remove  her  jewels  and  laces,  looking  angrily  at  the 
pallid,  haggard  face  her  mirror  showed  her. 

''  What  a  faded  wretch  I  look!"  she  thought.  **  And  if  I 
lose  my  beauty,  what  have  I  left?  In  a  few  years  I  will  be  an 
old  woman — old,  ugly,  wrinkled,  and — great  Heaven!  what 
vj'iW  become  of  me  men  ?" 

Mrs.  Ingram  disrobed,  and  leaving  all  the  candles  burning, 
went  to  bed.  It  was  years  and  years — so  long,  she  shuddered 
at  the  dreary  retrospect — since  she  had  dared  to  sleep  in  the 
dark.  For  a  dead  man's  face  rose  up  in  the  spectral  gloom— 
paie^  menacing,  terrible-^to  haunt  her  remorseful  dreamjs.  She 


WHO  Tfiosni? 


188 


nestled  down  among  the  yielding  pillows,  to-night,  with  an 
unutterable  sense  of  weariness,  and  misery,  and  awful  dread 
of  tlie  future. 

**  I  begin  to  believe  that  sad  old  Arabian  proverb,"  eht 
thoaghfc,  bitterly,  **  *  Man  is  better  sitting  than  standing,  ly- 
ing down  than  sitting,  dead  than  lying  dawn!'  " 

The  breakfast  hour  was  late  at  Chudleigh  Chase,  and  Sir 
Rupert's  guest  met  Sir  Rupert  at  that  matutinal  meal  with  a 
face  as  bright  and  cloudless  as  the  sunlit  August  sky.  The 
white  cashmere  robe,  with  its  cherry-colored  trimmings,  cord- 
ed about  the  slender  waist,  seemed  even  more  becoming  than 
the  many-hued  silks  ana  moires  she  donned  in  the  evenings. 
It  was  a  teie-d-feie  breakfast  this  morning.  Miss  Chudleigh 
bad  been  up  and  off  for  a  breezy  morning  gallop  over  tne 
golden  Sussex  downs  long  before  father  or  governess  thought 
of  opening  their  eyes. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  my  friend  Macgregor?"  the  baronet 
asked,  putting  the  very  question  the  widow  was  wishing  to 
hear;  ''  very  clever  fellow,  Macgregor,  though  he  does  support 
the  most  far-fetched  theories  and  deny  the  most  palpable  facts. 
Very  brilliant  conversationalist,  isn't  he?'* 

The  widow  raised  her  dimpled,  sloping  shoulders,  and 
wched  the  slender  black  brows. 

"  Dear  Sir  Rupert,  will  you  think  me  the  dullest  of  here- 
tics and  recusttUts  if  1  say  1  don'i  like  Mr.  Macgregor?  And 
will  you  permit  me  ask  you  a  few  questions  concerning  him?** 

"  A  whole  Pinnock*3  Catechism,  if  you  choose,  madams.*' 

**  Then  did  you  ever  know  Mr.  Macgregor  before  he  ap- 
peared in  Speckhaven,  two  or  three  months  ago?** 

"No.** 

**  Was  he  presented  by  any  friends  of  yours,  or  did  you  pick 
him  up,  as  Sairey  Gamp  would  say,  *  promiscuous  *?" 

**  I  picked  him  up  promiscuous.  1  saw  he  was  a  most  in- ; 
telligeut  and  agreeable  fellow,  and  intelligent  and  agreeable/ 
fellows  don't  hang  on  every  bush,  like  blackberries.  A  gen- 
tleman can  tell  another  gentleman  when  he  meets  him,  even 
although  there  be  no  third  party  on  hand  to  repeat  the  invari- 
able formula,  *  Sir  Rupert  Chudleigh,  allow  me — my  estima- 
ble friend,  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor,  celebrated  traveler,  distin- 
guished author,  etc.,  etc'  So,  Mrs.  Ingram,  1  picked  the  her- 
mit of  the  Retreat  up,  and  a  very  delightful  and  social  hermit 
I  find  him.** 

**  Yes,**  Mrs.  Ingram  said,  quietly;  "  Mr.  Macgregor,  as  he 
chooses  to  call  himself,  is  a  very  pleasant  companion^  and 

yet—" 


I 


186 


WHO    VfTSSf 


<« 


And  yet — you  *  damn  him  with  faint  praise,*  my 
lady.  And  he  *  chooses  to  call  himself  Macgregor/  dees  he? 
Pray,  what  then  ought  he  call  himself,  and  what  on  earth  do 
you  know  of  the  man,  Mrs.  Ingram?" 

"Sir  Rupert,"  the  lady  said,  earnestly,  "I  recognized 
Colonel  Trevanion's  tenant,  last  night,  as  a  person  1  met  in 
Vienna  many  years  ago.  A  man — it  sounds  incredible,  I  fear, 
but  it  is  true — a  man  sane  on  all  points  but  one — 7nud  on 
that.  In  short,  a  monomaniac.  It  was  during  my  husband's 
life-time;  business  had  taken  him  to  Vienna.  I  accompanied 
him,  and  one  night,  at  some  social  assembly,  I  met  this  man. 
I  really  forget  the  name  he  bore  then,  but  it  certainly  was  not 
Macgregor.  His  monomania  was  well  understood  among  his 
Viennese  friends — it  was  in  mislaJdnfi  identities.  For  in- 
stance, he  would  meet  you  and  be  suddenly  struck  with  the 
idea  that  you  resembled  some  person  he  had  seen  before.  He 
would  brood  over  the  idea  a  little,  and  finally  insist  that  you 
were  that  person.  I  heard  maiiy  most  laughable  anecdotes  of 
his  hallucination  at  first,  but  it  came  home  to  me  unpleasantly 
when  he  insisted  that  I  was  a  Mademoiselle  Eose — something, 
a  ballet-dancer  he  had  known  in  England.  Last  night,  at 
first,  I  hardly  knew  him;  that  vast  beard  alters  him  greatly; 
but  when  he  mounted  his  old  hobbj^-horse  and  told  me  I  was 
like  that — I  forget  what  he  called  her — and  Colonel  Trevan- 
ion  the  very  image  of  a  galley-slave  in  Toulon — I  remem- 
bered him  at  once.  It  sounds  strange,  I  admit,  but  it  is  pos- 
itively true;  the  man,  sane  and  intelligent,  and  talented  in 
every  other  way,  is  viad  on  this  subject.  And  yet,  it  is  not  so 
very  remarkable,  either.  Physicians  narrate  more  marvelous 
cases  of  mania  every  day." 

The  widow  paused.  Had  she  not  had  so  much  at  stake, 
she  could  have  laughed  outright  at  the  baronet's  face.  Blank 
bewilderment,  incredulous  surprise,  dense  dismay,  were  writ- 
ten irresistibly  in  his  astonished  features  and  wide-open  eyes.   ■ 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ingram!  Good  heavens!  What  an  extra- 
ordinary declaration.  Macgregor  mad!  The  man  that  can 
handle  every  topic  of  the  day,  from  the  destinies  of  nations  to 
the  coloring  of  one  of  Etty's  flimsiest  sketches;  the  man  who 
can  beat  me  in  an  argument — j^es,  I  own  it,  who  can  beat  me 
at  chess  and  ecarte,  vingt'et-tin  and  whist:  the  man  who 
writed  the  most  readable  books  of  the  period,  who —  Mad  I 
My  dear  Mrs.  Ingram,  you'll  excuse  me,  but  that  is  all  non- 
eeusel" 

*'  Very  well.  Sir  Rupert,"  the  widow  said,  perfectly  un- 
ruffled.   '*I  don't  want  to  shake  your  faith  in  your  friend* 


conce 
the  j 
bent 
five! 

Per 
mark, 
Whoa 

So 


WHO   WINSf 


a«? 


Believe  him  sane  as  long  as  he  will  allow  you.  I  am  very 
willing.  Only  if  the  mania  doei^  show,  if  he  does  insist  upon 
mistaKing  me  for  all  manner  of  improper  and  unplea«nt  per- 
sons, I  look  to  you  for  protection.  Perha{)S  I  am  silly,  but  I 
really  don't  like  to  be  told  I  am  the  livin^^  image  of '  a  woman 
BO  vicious  and  unprincipled  that  he  would  not  let  her  caress  a 
dog  he  cherished.  He  said  as  much  last  night,  you  remem- 
ber. And  I  don't  think  Colonel  Trevanion  felt  flattered  when 
told  he  so  vividly  resembled  the  galley-slave  at  Toulon.'* 

Again  that  look  of  perplexity  and  dismay  overspread  the 
baronet's  face. 

'*Gad!"  he  said;  **  you're  right;  it  can^the  pleasant;  and 
it's  rather  odd  of  Macgregor,  1  allow;  yet,  as  to  being  mad^ 
my  dear  Mrs.  Ingram,  it's  impossible  for  me  to  credit  that.'* 

Mrs.  Ingram  bowed. 

"  As  you  please,  Sir  Rupert.  'W6  will  wait  and  see.  Do 
you  wish  me  to  answer  those  letters  for  you  you  spoke  of  yes- 
terday?" 

*'  If  you  will  be  so  very  good,"  the  baronet  murmured, 
plai'  tivply.     *'  The  wretched  state  of  my  health,  my — " 

**  J  'ear  Sir  Rupert,  I  know.  It  is  a  pleasure,  1  assure  you; 
and  dearest  Gwendoline's  lessons  can  wait.  Why  should  you 
fatigue  yourself  writing,  when  I  am  ever  delighted  to  save  you 
the  trouble?  And  if  you  feel  inclined  to  listen,  I  will  finish 
that  treatise  of  Ilolbacli's  I  commenced  yesterday." 

Mis.  Ingram  knew  as  well  as  Sir  Rupert  himself  that  there 
was  nothing  on  earth  the.  mutter  with  him,  except  chronic  lazi- 
ness; but  it  suited  her  book  very  well  to  make  herself  indis- 
pensable; and  when  they  adjourned  to  the  library,  she  was 
tenderly  solicitous  on  i,he  subject  of  draughts,  and  wheeled  up 
his  easiest  of  easy-chairs,  and  arranged  his  footstool,  and 
draped  the  curtains  to  shade  the  light,  as  a  mother  might  have 
done  by  a  dying  child.  And  the  pretty  face  looked  so  sweetly 
concerned,  and  the  long,  black  eyes  so  tender  and  dewy,  and 
the  pei'fumed  hair  brushed  his  hand,  as  the  handsome  head 
bent  over  her  tasks,  that— oh,  calm-beuting  pulses  of  sixty- 
five!  no  wonder  you  quickened  to  the  speed  of  a  trip-hammer. 

Perhaps  Thackeray  was  right,  after  all,  in  his  sarcastic  re- 
mark, that  ''  The  woman  who  knows  her  power  may  marry 
Whom  She  Likes.''    The  capitals  are  his  own. 

So  Mrs.  Ingram  ssct  down  before  the  baronet,  looking  like 
some  exquisite  cabinet  picture,  and  wrote  his  letters  and  read 
aloud,  while  the  hot  August  morning  wore  on,  and  the  birdi 
sung  in  the  green  darkness  of  the  mighty  oaks  and  beeches^ 
and  the  bees  boomed  drowsily  in  rose  and  lily-cup. 


fj'^n 


m 


WHO   WlSlf 

"  In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fanof 
Lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love,  * 


says  Mr.  Tennyson;  and  in  the  sultry  heat  of  Augnst,  a  lazy, 
beaaty-admirius  old  man,  with  nothing  else  to  do^,  and  a  pret* 
!  ty  woman  ever  before  him,  may  turn  his  fancy  h'ghtly  in  that 
direction,  too.  Certain  it  is  that  Sir  Eupert  kissed  the  wido»ir*a 
hand,  with  a  glow  on  his  tliin,  high-bred  face  rarely  seea 
there,  as  she  arose  to  go. 

"  I  know  you  want  your  noonday  nap,  and  I  have  finished 

M.  Holbach,''  she  said',  gayly.     *'  I  shall  go  in  search  of  mv 

runaway  pupil  now,  and  give  her  her  music  lesson.  Farewell." 

And  then  the  elegant  little  lady  sailed  away,  and  Sir  Rupert 

closed  his  eyes  and  lay  back  in  placid  ecstasy. 

"  That  woman  is  a  jewel;  I  appreciate  her  more  and  more 
every  day.  What  a  pretty  little  soft  voice  she  has!  And 
those  wonderful  eyes — soft,  luminous,  melting!'*  The  bar- 
onet smacked  liis  venerable  lips.  '*  And  her  smiles  make  one 
think  of  tho  Mussulman's  houris — *  not  made  of  clay,  but  of 
pure  musk.'  And  she  never  bangs  a  door,  and  she  never 
bores  one  when  one  doesn't  want  her,  and  her  manners  are 
perfect,  and  she  is  past  mistress  of  the  high  art  of  dress,  and 
her  singing  is  enchanting,  and — in  short,  1  hope  she  won't 
take  it  into  her  head  to  '  better  herself '  by  getting  married, 
or  any  nonsense  of  that  sort,  for  some  years  to  come.  1  wisli 
that  noodle,  Trovanion,  would  cease  hunting  her  down,  and 
marry  his  cousin,  as  he  ought  to  do." 

Mrs.  Ingram  conscientiously  sought  out  Gwendoline  and 
dragged  her  to  the  piano,  and  held  her  captive  there  for  two 
mortal  hours.  Then  it  was  luncheon-time,  and  directly  after 
luncheon  Miss  Chudleigh  was  marched  off  to  French  and 
drawing,  bitterly  against  her  will.  It  was  past  four,  and  the 
afternoon  sun  was  dropping  low,  before  the  governess  con- 
sented to  liberate  her  wreLched  serf. 

She  stood  alone  in  the  school-room,  among  maps  and  black- 
boards and  v/riting-de°ks  and  scattered  books,  after  G  wendoline 
had  rushed  frantically  away,  leaning  against  the  marble  chim- 
ney-piece, with  that  grayish  look  of  worn  pallor  that  always 
overspread  her  face  when  alone.  The  broad  road  may  be 
strewn  with  roses  at  first  sight;  but  when  we  come  to  tread  it, 
we  find  the  tliorns  pierce  through  the  rose-leaves  sharply 
enough.  Standing  there,  Mrs.  ingram  looked  wearied  of  hfe, 
of  the  world  and  all  therein. 

**  When  will  it  all  end?"  she  wondered,  drearily;  **  or  am  I 
to  go  oa  forever  like  this— stretched  on  the  rack?    Will  rest 


wfio  wnfsf 


lai 


uevsr  come  in  tlils  world,  or  must  I  wait  for  it  until  they  laj 
ine  yonder  in  the  church-yard?" 

The  door  opened;  a  servant  entered.  Mrs.  Ingram  lifted 
np  her  wan,  haggai-d  face. 

**  What  is  it,  Mary?"  she  asked,  listlessly. 

"  Colonel  Trevanio'  >  ma'am.  He  is  in  the  white  drawing- 
room,  which  he  says  he  wants  to  see  you,  ma'am,  most  par- 
ticular." 

*'  Very  well;  I  will  go  down." 

The  girl  disappeared,  soliloquizing,  as  she  descended  to  tho 
lower  regions: 

"  They  calls  her  *andsome,  they  does— master  and  the  gen- 
tlemen from  Speckhaven  I  wish  they  could  see  her  now.  If 
/was  to  paint  and  powder  and  dress  up  like  she  does,  they 
might  call  me  'andsome,  too.  She  looks  forty  years  old  this 
minute." 

Mrs.  Ingram  walked  over  to  the  glass.  Gwendoline  kept  a 
mirror  in  the  school-room  to  refresh  herself,  amid  her  dry-as- 
dust  studies,  by  an  occasional  peep  at  her  own  rosy  face. 

**  I  look  like  a  wretch,"  the  widow  thought — "  old  and  hag- 
gard and  hollow-eyed.  Very  well;  V\\  go  down  as  I  am;  it 
may  help  to  cure  this  idiot  or  his  insane  passion.  He  can  do 
me  good  service  as  a  tool;  he  is  only  a  nuisance  as  a  lover.  I 
shall  come  to  a  final  understanding  with  him,  and  have  done 
with  it." 

She  descended  to  the  white  drawing-room,  one  of  a  long  and 
Bjilendid  suite,  and  found  Cyril  Trevanion  pacing  to  and  fro 
with  his  usual  moody  face,  while  he  waited.  He  stopped  as 
she  entered,  staring  at  her  pale,  worn  look. 

"  You  have  been  ill — you  are  ill,"  he  said,  in  alarm;  "  you 
are  looking  wretchedly.  In  Heaven's  name,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

Mrs.  Ingram  sunk  down  in  the  white  velvet  depths  of  a 
fauteuil,  and  made  an  impatient  movement  of  her  slender 
nand. 

'*  There  is  nothing  the  matter — you  see  me  as  T  am,  that  is 
all.  If  my  wretched  looks  disenchant  you,  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  them— for  once." 

Cyril  Trevanion  set  his  teeth,  his  dark  face  growing  darker 
with  anger. 

*'  You  are  merciless,"  he  said.  **  I  love  you,  and  this  is 
how  you  meet  me.  I  came  here  to-day  to  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife." 

Mrs.  Ingram  laughed — a  laugh  of  indescribable  scorn. 

'*  Much  obliged.    I  ought  to  feel  flattered^  I  suppose;  but 


'^ 
.'*j 


140 


WHO    WIKS 


ce  ? 


really  I  can't  eay  that  I  do.  You  want  a  wife,  do  you?  and 
you  want  to  marry  me,  on  the  principle  that  what  won't  keep 
one  will  keep  two.  What  do  you  propose,  Mr.  Cyril  Trevan- 
ion?    Will  we  go  to  Monkswood,  among  the  rats  and  the 

f hosts,  and  subsist  on  the  memory  of  the  family  splendor  gone 
y,  and  the  bounty  of  our  rich  friends?  Or  shall  we  set  up  a 
public-house,  like  one's  maid  and  valet,  and  call  it  the  *  Tre- 
vanion  Arms,'  with  you  '  hail  fellow  well  met '  amid  all  the 
clowns  in  the  county,  and  I,  in  a  cap  and  ribbons,  making  my- 
self fascinating  behind  a  greasy  bar,  dealing  out  gin  and 
water?  My  dear  Colonel  Trevanion,  I  knew  your  intellect 
from  the  first  to  be  none  of  the  strongest;  but,  upon  my  word, 
I  never  thought  you  would  fall  to  such  a  depth  of  idiocy  as 
this,  much  less  propose  it  to  me." 

'     She  looked  up  in  his  face,  fully  and  boldly,  with  insolent 
defiance.     And  the  craven  soul  within  the  man  made  his  eyes 
fall,  even  while  he  ground  out  suppressed  blasphemies  be-  ^ 
tween  his  teeth. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Cyril  Trevanion,"  the  widow  said  in  an 
altered  tone,  "  and  don't  be  a  fool,  and  don't  be  angry.  I  do 
not  love  you,  as  you  very  well  know;  yet,  if  the  '"ealth  that 
has  gone  to  Sybil  Leraox  were  yours,  I  would  marry  you  to- 
morrow. But  it  is  hers  beyond  redemption,  and  you  and  I 
can  never  be  more  to  each  other  than  friends.  Your  friend  I 
am  very  willing  to  be,  if  you  take  my  advice  and  act  wisely. 
I  know  you  !  Don't  make  an  enemy  of  me.  You  have  one 
already,  and  a  dangerous  one,  in  that  man  Macgregor," 

"  Curse  him!  yes." 

"  He  saw  you  at  Toulon.     Do  you  remember  him?" 

**  No — that  is — do  you  mean  to  say  you  believe  me  to  be  the 
convict  he  spoke  of  last  night?" 

"  Colonel  Trevanion,  don't  bluster — it  is  ever  the  sign  of  a 
coward.  Yes,  I  do.  You  are  that  escaped  convict,  and  you 
bear  the  brand  on  your  arm,  or  shoulder,  or  somewhere,  if  you 
only  liked  to  display  it.  You  are  an  impostor  and  an  escaped 
convict.     Will  you  tell  me  what  you  are  besides?" 

**Ko,l  shall  not!" 

"  Just  as  you  please.  I'll  find  out  for  myself,  then.  Shall 
I  tell  you  what  you  are?    Stoop  down;  walls  have  ears." 

There  was  an  unpleasant  tightness  about  the  pretty  mouth, 
an  unpleasant,  steady  glitter  in  the  black  eyes.  One  little 
hand  grasped  the  man's  wrist  like  a  steel  fetter,  and  drew  him 
down.  He  bent  his  head,  and  she  whispered  half  a  dozen 
words — no  more — in  his  ear.  But  they  sent  him  recoiling, 
with  a  tremendouo  c£% 


WHO  wnrsf 


HI 


be- 


Shall 


"  Who  told  you?"  he  cried,  hoarsely.    **  Are  you  a  femalt 

tWl,  or  what  ?'* 

*'  Something  very  like  it,"  replied  the  widow,  with  ft  haiti 
little  laugh.  **  And  you  thought  to  outwit  »n«f  Now,  shail 
fre  be  friends  or  enemies?" 

He  stood  glaring  down  upon  her  for  a  moment,  with  that 
lurid,  maniacal  light  in  his  eyes  that  Charley  Lemox  had  once 
before  remarked. 

I    "  You  are  mistress,"  he  said,  in  the  same  hoarse  wfty. 
**  What  do  you  want?'' 

"  Only  your  good  and  my  own.  I  want  you  to  marry  your 
cousin  Sybil  and  her  splendid  dowry,  and  I  want — see  how 
frank  I  can  be — I  want  to  marry  Sir  Kupert  Chudleigh  my- 
ielf." 

Cyril  Trevanion  broke  into  a  harsh,  discordant  laugh. 

**  Sybil  Lemox  is  a  lady;  she  won't  marry  me.  And  Sir 
Rupert  Chudleigh  is  a  gentleman;  he  won't  marry  you.  Bar- 
onets don't  marry  their  daughters'  governesses,  except  in  a 
lady's  novel." 

"How  rude  you  are!"  Mrs.  Ingram  murmured,  reproach- 
fully. **  Baronets  don't  espouse  governesses,  as  a  rule,  I  ad- 
mit; but  I  am  no  ordinary  governess,  neither  am  I  treated  as 
such;  and  this  particular  bai'onet  will  marry  me.  And  I  am 
going  to  be  the  most  charitable  of  Lady  Bountifuls — a  mother 
to  the  poor  for  miles  around,  and  a  s^e;j-mother  to  that  dread- 
ful romp,  Gwendoline.  Yes,  Colonel  Trevanion,  I  am  des- 
tined to  be  Lady  Chudleigh,  and  I  will  move  heaven  and 
earth  to  see  yo2i  the  happy  husband  of  our  queenly  Sj'bil." 

*'  What  the  deu^e  do  you  want  me  to  marry  her  for?"  the 
ffentleman  asked,  relapsing  into  his  habitual  sulkiness.  "  What 
is  it  to  you?" 

*'  It  is  a  great  deal  to  me.     Don't  you  know  I  hate  her?" 

Cyril  Trevanion  stared.  The  evil  glitter  was  very  bright 
now  in  the  black  eyes,  the  evil  smile  dancing  on  the  thin  lipa. 

"  Yes,  I  hate  her,"  Mrs.  Ingram  said,  airily,  "  as  only  one 
woman  can  hate  another.  You  want  to  know  why,  do  you? 
Well,  take  a  woman's  reason:  I  hate  her  lecaiise  1  hate  her. 
She  is  younger  than  I  am,  handsomer  than  I  am,  richer  than 
I  am — purer,  better,  happier  than  I  am.  And  I  hate  her, 
and  she  hates  me. " 

"  And  because  you  hate  her,  you  want  to  see  her  my 
wife?" 

*'  Exactly.  I  need  hai'clly  ask  a  better  revenge.  If  she  mar- 
ries you,  it  will  not  be  yav — the  man — she  marries.  It  will 
be  her  own  ideal,  Cyril  Trevanion^  whom  she  has  loved  from 


m 
III  I 

lit 


Hi 


WHO  irnrsf 


childhood,  who  lies  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the  Southsm  Sea 
By  the  bye,  is  it  indisputably  certain  that  he  is  dead?" 

"  Would  /  venture  here  else?  J  tell  you  I  saw  the  ship  my. 
self  burn  to  the  water's  edge,  and  every  soul  on  board  periali 
with  her.  The  *  Eastern  Light  *  went  to  the  bottom  two  yean 
ago,  and  Cyril  Trevanion  among  the  rest." 

**  Then  you  are  quite  safe,  in  spite  of  Angus  Macgregor.  If 
he  doubts  your  identity,  they  will  set  him  down  a  madman. 
Now,  you  see,  theie  is  no  alternative.  You  can't  marry  me; 
you  mnsi  marry  Sybil,  the  heiress.  And  when  she  is  your 
wife,  and  you  have  her  fortune  within  your  grasp,  tell  her  who 
you  are,  and  come  to  me  for  your  reward." 

"  And  you?" 

The  widow  laughed — a  mocking  peal. 

"  Oh,  I. will  go  with  you,  then,  and  we  will  live  in  splendor 
on  tho  spoil — that  is,  if  Sir  Rupert  will  be  obstinate,  and 
won't  malke  me  *  my  lady.  *  Now  we  understand  each  other. 
Obey,  and  I  will  be  your  friend;  refuse,  and  I  will  be  the  first 
to  tear  your  mask  off,  and  show  you  to  the  world  as  an  im- 
postor— a  base-born  wretch — an  escaped  galley-slave.  Shall 
we  say  adieu  for  the  present?  It  is  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 
Not  being  Lady  Chudleigh  as  yei,  I  really  can  not  take  it 
upon  myself  to  invite  you  to  slay.  And  if  I  could,  I  wouldn't 
Sir  Rupert  is  jealous,  poor  dear." 

She  laughed  again  as  she  rose — a  sv/eet  little  laugh — and 
held  out  her  white  hand. 

"  My  dear  colonel,  pray  don^t  look  quite  so  much  like  a 
death's-head  and  cross-bones.  That  iflippant  Gwendoline  calls 
you  *  The  Knight  of  the  Woful  Countenance,'  and  really  you 
deserve  it.  Don't  hope  to  win  the  handsome  heiress  with  that 
moody  face.  Try  to  look  amiable,  if  you  can.  It's  just  as 
easy,  and  ever  s'>  much  pleasanter." 

He  caught  the  hand  she  held  out  in  a  grasp  that  made  her 
v/ince. 

*'  And  this  is  the  end?  There  is  no  hope?  I  must  obey 
you,  or — " 

"  Please  let  so  my  hand;  you  are  crushing  it  to  atoms. 
Yes,  you  must  ooey  me,  or —  We  won't  finish,  for  you  will 
obey." 

**  And  if  Sybil  Trevanion  refuses  to  marry  me?" 

The  widow  shrugged  her  sloping  shoulders,  and  moved  to 
the  door. 

**  Look  to  yourself,  then.  Poor,  weak  hearti  don't  you 
know  your  Shakespeare  yet* 


TV, 


WHO  wrnnf 


148 


-and 


**  *  Th9  man  that  bath  a  tongue,  I  say  la  no  man, 
If  with  that  tongue  be  can  not  win  a  womani' 

Farewell  for  the  present.  When  you  have  proposed,  and  she 
has  accepted,  come  back,  and  let  me  be  the  first  to  congratu* 
late  you." 

The  words  were  strangely  like  the  farewell  words  of  old 
Hester.  She  was  gone,  with  her  soft,  sliding  step  and  insolent 
smile,  while  yet  she  spoke;  and  the  darkly  menacing  glance, 
the  look  of  baffled  love,  of  bitter  hate  combined,  which  Cyril 
Trevanion  cast  after  her,  was  all  unseen.  It  might  have 
warned  her,  if  on  the  dangerous  road  she  was  treadmg  there 
had  been  any  turning  back. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

COLONEL  TREVANION  OBtYS  ORD7IR8. 

Cyril  Trevanion  rode  slowly  homeward  chrough  the 
sultry  gray  of  the  August  evening,  his  gloomy  face  set  in  an 
expression  of  dark,  dogged  resolution.  It  was  "  written, *'  it 
was  his  fate;  those  two  women,  so  unlike  in  all  other  things, 
BO  like  in  this  one  fell  purpose,  were  driving  him  headlong  to 
his  doom.  They  had  him  hopelessly  under  their  heels;  there 
was  no  alternative  but  blind  obedience. 

"  I  will  do  it,  shice  I  vuii<i,"  he  said,  inwardly;  "  and  if 
she  refuses,  let  them  take  care!  Coward  as  I  am,  I  can  be 
dangerous  when  goaded  to  desperation.  A  coward  frenzied 
into  fight  is  ten  times  more  terrible  than  a  brave  man.  1  will 
ask  Syoil  to  be  my  v/ife  before  I  sleep.'' 

But  when,  in  the  crystal  moonlight,  the  ex-colonel  reached 
the  villa,  it  was  to  find  himself  baffled  for  that  time  at  least. 
Through  the  French  windows  of  the  drawing-room,  standing 
wide  open,  he  could  see  the  graceful  figure  of  the  heiress 
leated  at  the  piano,  and  the  man  he  hated  most  on  earth 
3tanding  beside  her,  looking  as  happy  as  Adam  in  Eden. 

'*  Mav  the  old  demon  fly  away  with  him!"  muttered  the  In- 
dian officer;  "  if  I  had  a  pistol  I  would  be  tempted  to  shoot 
him  where  he  stands.  By  lleaven !  I  would  marry  her  now  if 
I  could,  were  it  only  to  triumph  over  him.  No  one  need  look 
twice  to  see  what  tJwse  two  faces  say." 

He  wheeled  round  and  walked  otf  to  the  stables  to  smoke 
and  amuse  himself  with  the  steeds.  He  had  a  passion  for 
horses,  and  the  Trevanion  stables  had  always  been  the  pride  of 
the  family.  He  emerged  just  in  time  to  see  the  tenant  of  the 
Eetreftt  tAke  his  departure,    {^ybil  stood  in  the  brilliant  x&oon« 


144 


WHO    WlXsf 


light  on  the  portico,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  with  shy,  happy 
grace,  all  new  in  his  experience  of  her,  as  she  gave  Macgregof 
her  hand. 

**  Remember  your  promise,"  she  said,  softly;  "  I  shall 
never  know  peace  until  the  mystery  is  solved." 

**  I  am  not  likely  to  forget.  Before  yonder  full  moon 
wanes,  the  secret  will  be  revculcd." 

Hw  held  her  hand  just  a  thought  longer,  perhaps,  than 
there  was  any  real  necessity  for,  then  he  was  gone.  He  kept 
no  horse — ho  rarely  rode,  vet  he  could  go  across  country  like  a 
bird;  and  to-night  he  crashed  through  the  dewy  grass  and  tall 
ferns  with  long,  swift  strides.  He  passed  very  close  to  where 
Cyril  stood,  whistling  an  old  Scottish  air  that  Sybil  often 
played,  with  an  inexpressibly  happy  glow  on  his  handsome- 
lace.  The  hidden  watcher  clinched  his  right  hand  vindic- 
tively, and  his  black  eyes  glared  in  the  darkness,  like  the  eyes 
of  a  beast  of  prey. 

"If  I  only  had  a  pistol!"  he  hissed,  for  the  second  time 
under  his  breath,  "  I  would  shoot  him  down — coward  as  I  am 
— like  a  dog!^' 

The  heiress  of  Trevanion  stood  on  the  moonlit  portico  until 
the  tall  Macgregor  disappeared.  She  lingered  still,  tempted 
by  the  unutterable  beauty  of  the  night,  when  her  cousin 
B^-Tode  up. 

"  You,  Cyril!"  she  said,  with  a  little  start,  rousing  from 
Bome  pleasant  reverie;  *'  how  late  you  are.  You  have  been  to 
Chudleigh  Chase,  of  course,"  carelessly. 

"  My  being  at  Chudleigh  Chase  is  no  matter  of  course,  that 
I  can  see.  As  to  the  lateness — it  is  as  early  for  me,  I  pre- 
sume, as  for  the  *  gentle  hermit '  who  burrows  like  an  under- 
ground mole  in  Monks  wood  Retreat.  1  saw  him  go  just 
now." 

The  color  rose  in  Sybil's  fair  face — he  could  see  the  angry 
flush,  the  kindling  sparkle  in  her  eye,  even  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  recollect,  Colonel  Trevanion, 
that  the  '  underground  mole  '  you  speak  of  so  contemptuously 
Baved  my  life.  He  saved  my  life  at  the  risk  of  his  own,  and 
ingratitude  never  was  a  failing  of  the  Trevanions  until — of 
late." 

The  haughty  head  raised  itself  erect— the  bright  blue  eyes 
flashed  indignant  fire.  Truly,  Cyril  Trevanion's  wooing 
opened  unpromisingly  enough. 

*'  They  can  be  ungenerous,  at  least,"  he  retorted,  stung  by 
the  recollection  cf  hvw  her  life  had  been  saved,  *.*  or  you  would 


WEO   WINS? 


141 


\ 


shall 


moon 


nerer  taunt  me  with  that.     I  explained — my  recent  illness— 
my  shattered  nerves— my — " 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Sybil  exclaimed,  hastily,  ehrinking 
sensitively  frcn  the  subject;  '*  it  wax  ungenerous,  but  you 
stung  me  into  it.  ifou  are  no  friend  of  Mr.  Macgregor — all 
the  more  reason,  my  good  cousin,  why  you  should  not  stoop 
to  the  smallness  of  slandering  him  bt^hind  his  back.  A  brave  f 
man  never  stubs  in  the  dark.  Say  what  you  have  to  say  to 
Mr.  Mangrcgor  himself — ho  is  quite  capable,  I  fancy,  of  tak- 
ing his  own  part — but  pray  don't  slight  him  to  me.  Good- 
night." 

She  swept  away  with  the  queenly  grace  and  pride  character- 
istic of  La  Princc'sse,  leaving  the  lu3ro  of  Balaklava  to  anathe- 
matize his  own  folly,  and  this  slender  girl's  indomitable  spirit. 

"A  promising  beginning,"  he  muttered,  with  a  bitter 
laugh;  '*  I  am  peculiarly  fortunate  in  my  love-making.  Mrs. 
Ingram  ought  to  see  me  now." 

Next  morning,  v/hen  the  cousins  met  at  breakfast,  Sybil 
wore  her  iciest  face;  but  the  penitent  expression  of  Cyril  dis- 
persed the  little  cloud  at  once.  He  had  offended  her,  and  he 
was  sorry — Miss  Trevanion  was  a  great  deal  too  large-hearted 
and  generous  to  ask  more  than  that.  So  she  accepted  the 
olive  branch  at  once,  and  talked  good-naturedly  to  the  young 
man,  and  promised  to  walk  over  with  him  to  the  Priory  imme- 
diately after  breakfast,  to  see  the  improvements  he  was  about 
to  make.  The  workmen  were  to  begin  that  very  day,  and 
nothing  must  be  touched  without  Sybil's  approbation. 

"  It  is  very  comphmentary  tf  you,  Cyril,"  she  said,  care- 
lessly; *'  but  not  in  the  least  necessary  to  consult  me.  Of 
course,  I  shoiild  be  sorry  to  see  the  dear  old  place  much 
altered — but  I  fancy  there  is  no  danger  of  that." 

"  Your  indifference  to  me  and  my  doings  and  my  belongings 
is  plain  enough.  Heaven  knows,"  Cyril  answered,  bitterly. 
"  There  is  little  need  to  tell  me  of  it.  And  yet  it  was  the 
thought  of  yoii,  and  you  only,  that  ever  brought  me  here." 

Which  was  strictly  true.  He  thought  of  Miss  Trevanion 
and  her  splendid  rent-roll  and  dowry.  They  were  walking 
along  a  cool,  leafy  arcade,  very  near  the  west  gate  of  Monks- 
wood,  very  near  the  Prior's  Walk,  as  he 'said  this. 

A  vivid  contrast  they  were.  Sybil,  so  fair,  so  bright,  so 
beautiful,  her  beauty  only  set  off  by  the  somber  hue  of  her 
dress  and  coquettish  little  black  hat;  he  so  dark,  so  moody,  so 
stern. 

"It  was  for  your  sake  I  returned  to  Speckhaven,"  Colonel 
Treyonion  continued,  looking  at  the  grass,  at  the  trees,  any- 


/ 


14« 


WHO    WINS  f 


wheid  but  at  that  bright,  fair  face,  with  its  crystal  ctl 
"  lor  yours  alone.  You  loved  me  once — as  a  cl»ild,  at  least. 
I  came  back,  ia  the  hope  that  you  might  forget  my  past,  and 
love  me  still;  and  I  e&w  you  beautiful  as  a  dream,  but  cold  ai 
a  statue  of  enow.  Yes,  Sybil,  my  cousin — my  love — you  have 
my  secet  at  last.  Is  the  old  ad't'ction  hopelessly  dead.**  Have 
you  no  place  in  your  heart  for  Cyril  Trcvanion?" 

The  words  were  well  enough — but  Iho  tone  I  Ah!  hypocrite 
ajid  dissembler  though  ho  was,  the  false  ring  of  spurious  coin 
was  there,  and  the  girl's  keen  ear  caught  it  from  the  tirst 
word. 

She  looked  steadfastly  up  in  his  face,  a  cynical  smile  curv- 
mg  the  rosy  lips. 

*  Cousin  Cyril,"   she  said,  with  that    prpvokmg    smilo, 
"  when  did  Mrs.  Ingram  jilt  you?" 

"Sybil!" 

"  Yes,  I  know.  That  look  of  shocked  indignation  is  very 
well  got  up,  but  it  doesn't  in  the  slightest  deceive  me.  Ifc 
roust  have  been  last  evening,  for  you  haven't  seen  her  to-day. 
My  poor  cousin!  Why,  I  could  htive  told  you  from  the  first 
how  it  would  be.  Prince  Fortunatus,  in  the  Jairy  tale,  or  Sir 
Rupert  Chudleigh,  are  tho  only  men  to  suit  little  Madame 
Ingram." 

His  face  blackened  with  anger.  He  had  guessed  from  the 
beginning  that  this  would  be  the  result  -he  had  eaid  so — but 
the  defeat  was  none  the  less  stinging  when  it  came.  And  with 
the  consciousness  of  utter  loss  came  the  knowledge  of  how 
peerless,  how  lovely,  how  wealthy  she  was. 

"  You  pay  me  but  a  poor  compliment.  Colonel  Trcvanion," 
the  young  lady  said  in  slow,  sarcastic  tones,  **  to  come  here 
this  morning,  and  offer  me  the  hand  and  heart  Mrs.  Ingram 
refused  last  night.  Believe  me,  I  know  fully,  and  appreciate 
at  its  true  worth,  the  love  you  have  lavished  upon  me  since 
your  return.  But  I  did  not  think — no,  Cyril  Trevanion,  1  did 
not  think  vou  would  have  insulted  me  by  such  an  oll'er  as  this." 

**  Inndted,  Sybil!" 

"  What  is  it  but  an  insult?"  the  young  girl  cried,  her  eyes 
flash.' ~g  blue  fire,  her  cheeks  aflame.  *' iJo  you  think  me 
blind?  Do  you  think  me  an  idiot?  Has  it  not  been  plain  to 
all  the  world  that  Mrs.  Ingram  has  held  you  in  the  maddest  of 
mad  mfatiiations  fr  arc  the  first?  Have  you  had  eyes,  or  ears, 
or  thr^nght  for  me '  And  \.  hen  she  rejects  you,  as  I  knoiu  she 
&yB  rfjectfd  you,  you  come  to  me.  For  what?  For  spite  and 
my  »one-  Or,  pt-ihaps,  fhe  has  advised  you  to  do  it — such 
,  far-seeii  g,  kiud-hearted  little  woman  as  she  is! 


(< 


WHO  wrs%f 


14? 


f> 


}f 


Cyril  TreTftnion,  if  you  had  strnck  me,  I  think  I  could  have 
foreiven  you  Booner  than  for  asking  me  to  he  your  wifel" 

The  passionate  words  poured  vehemently  out.  He  mad«  no 
attempt  to  check  them.  His  cowardice  and  his  eeuse  of  guilt 
were  too  great. 

"  You  do  well,"  sho  went  on,  **  to  recall  the  old  love,  the 
childish  worship  I  had  for  my  soldier  cousin.  J3ut  the  Cyril  ■  ^ 
Trevanion  of  fifteen  years  ago  is  not  the  Cyril  Trevanion  of  to- 
day. You  have  changed,!  think,  as  no  man  ever  changed 
before.  That  old  dream  diod  a  violent  death  in  Ihc  first  hour 
of  your  return.  Tliero  is  not  a  laborer  in  yonder  field  but  has 
as  warm  a  hold  on  my  h'art  as  ijok,  and  you  know  it.  How 
dare  you,  sir,  ask  mo  to  marry  you,  without  affection — with- 
out even  respect,  I  think — for  my  wealth,  and  to  spite  the 
widow  Ingram?    How  dare  you  do  it,  sir?" 

She  stamped  her  little  loot  passionately,  sho  clinched  one 
tiny  hand  until  the  nails  sunk  in  the  pink  palm;  the  violefc 
eyes  were  black  with  anger  and  wounded  pride,  the  cheeks 
hot,  the  whole  face  aP.ame. 

So  Angus  Macgregor  saw  her,  as  ho  stood  under  the  shadow 
of  his  front-door  sycamore  and  watched  them  come  up. 

Cyril  Trevanion  stalked  moodily  by  her  side,  his  eyes  down- 
cast, not  daring  to  meet  those  flashing,  fearless  glances,  his 
craven  soul  quailing  within  him. 

**  Do  you  think  I  can  not  see  her  work  in  this,"  she  went 
on,  vehemently — "  her  artful,  designing  prompting?  Sho 
fools  you  to  the  top  of  your  bent,  and  when  ycu  ask  her  to  be 
your  wife,  she  laughs  m  your  face.  iS/ie  marry  a  poor  man, 
mdeed,  and  a  baronet  with  eight  thousand  a  year  within 
reach!  *  Go  and  ask  your  cousin  Sybil,' she  tells  you;  *  we 
are  too  poor  to  make  a  love  match.  Go  and  marry  her,  and 
win  bacK  your  lost  fortune.'  That  was  her  advice,  was  it 
not?  And  you  obediently  act  upon  it  at  once.  Cyril  Trevan- 
ion, I  will  never  forgive  you  to  my  dying  day!" 

Hot  tears  of  pride  and  passion  filled  the  angry  blue  eyes.  . 
Sue  dashed  them  indignantly  away,  and  went  on:  \ 

**  If  it  were  in  my  power  to  restore  you  the  foii^uneyou 
have  lost.  Heaven  knows  I  would  open  my  hands  and  let  ife 
flow  like  water.  I  would  never  retain  one  farthing  that 
should  rightfully  be  yours.  But  it  is  nnl  in  my  power.  The 
will  that  leaves  all  to  me  contains  a  special  clause  against  its 
ever  returning,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  yon.  Should  I  ever 
become  your  wife,  every  stiver  goes  that  hour  to  the  Trevan- 
ions  of  OomwaU.    It  is  a  great  pity  you  and  Mrs.  Ingram  did 


m 

m 


la 


WHO   WINS? 


not  know  this  sooner.  It  would  have  saved  me  a  proposal  thii 
morning  from  Colonel  Trevanion." 

**  You  are  right,"  Cyril  muttered  between  his  teeth;  "  it 
would,  by  heavens!" 

She  stopped  at  once,  facing  him  full,  her  head  thrown  back, 
her  eyes  glittering,  her  face  deathly  pale. 

"  You  stand  confessed,  then,"  she  said,  panting,  white  with 
anger,  **  the  cold-blooded  craven  and  traitor  I  thought  youl 
And  once  I  lo^'cd  this  man — once  all  the  dreams  of  my  life 
were  of  Cyril  Trevanion!  But  it  may  not  be  too  late  yet. 
There  is  anothei^  will — a  will  that  leaves  all  to  you.  Do  vou 
hear — all?  Ask  the  lady  you  love  where  that  will  is;  bhe 
ought  to  know.  It  disappeared  with  your  father.  Pull  down 
every  stone  in  yonder  old  house,  root  up  every  tree  in  yonder 
park,  search  every  inch  of  the  estate — find  the  old  man's 
tody,  and  find  the  will  that  makes  you  his  heir.  Mrs.  Ingram 
will  become  your  wife  theiij  and  I — " 

"  And  you  will  take  to  your  spotless  arms  the  bearded  Goli- 
ath of  the  Retreat,  the  handsome  bohemian,  the  bull-fighting 
quill-driver,  the  Kobinson  Crusoe  of  Monkswood  Park!" 

The  devilish  sneer  upon  his  face  might  have  done  honor  to 
Lucifer  himself.  The  deathly  pallor  of  Sybil's  face  could 
hardly  deepen,  but  the  violet  eyes  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
glance  few  men  would  care  to  meet.  • 

"You  coward!"  she  said;  "you  base,  base,  base  cowardi 
Go!  As  long  as  we  both  live,  I  never  want  to  look  upon  your 
face  again!'* 

**  I  will  go,"  her  cousin  answered,  livid  with  suppressed 
rage;  "  and  I  will  take  your  advice.  I  will  tear  down  the  old 
house,  I  will  uproot  every  tree  in  the  park,  I  ivill  search  every 
inch  of  the  ground  to  find  the  old  man's  bones,  and  the  paper 
that  makes  a  beggar  of  y/^?^,  my  haughty  Lady  S3'bil!  And 
when  that  day  comes,  out  you  go — you  and  your  whimpering 
mother,  and  your  cub  of  a  brother!  T/iei/  can  go  back  and 
starve  on  kale  and  heather,  in  their  beggarly  Highland  castle, 
and  you,  my  princess,  can  fly  to  the  open  arms  of — " 

"Bold!''  exclaimed  a  voice  that  made  the  leafy  arches 
ring.  "You  snake!  you  reptile!  you  less  than  reptile!  An- 
other word  of  insult  to  that  lady,  and,  by  the  eternal  Heaven, 
I'll  brain  you!" 

Macgregor  stood  before  them,  tall,  strong,  black-browed, 
terrible,  towering  up  in  his  magnificent  might  like  the  Goliath 
Trevanion  had  called  him.  And  at  the  tremendous  apparition 
tho  hero  of  Balaklava  cowered  like  the  hound  they  called  him; 


I 


WHO   WDJSf 


149 


bat  the  sullen  doggedjiess  within  gave  him  still  desperation  to 
go  on. 

"  I  will  leave  her  to  her  champion,"  he  said,  with  an  evil 
sneer.  ''I  was  going  to  add,  she  could  fly  to  the  arms  of 
\  Macgregor,  when — " 

He  never  finished  the  sentence.  Macgregor  literally  seized 
him  in  his  mighty  arms,  and  hurled  him  headlong  into  a 
jungle  of  fern. 

**  Lie  there,  you  dog,  you  curl  If  it  were  not  for  Miss  Tre- 
vanion's  presence,  I  would  break  every  bone  in  your  cowardly 
carcass!" 

He  did  not  deign  to  give  him  a  second  look.  He  turned  to 
her,  his  passionate  face  changing  at  once.  She  still  stood 
erect,  panting,  white  to  the  lips,  an  outraged  and  insulted 
queen. 

**  My  dear  Miss  Sybil,"  he  said,  as  he  might  have  addressed 
his  queen,  "  let  me  be  your  escort  home.  That  scoundrel  will 
give  you  no  more  trouble  at  present,  I  fancy." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  blindly.  She  was  so  sensi- 
tively proud,  and  the  insult  had  been  so  coarse,  so  brutal. 

Macgregor  lifted  it  to  his  lips,  then  drew  it  under  his  arm. 

"  Let  us  go,"  he  said,  very  gently.  "  The  walk  will  do 
you  good." 

She  let  him  lead  her  away.  She  had  implicit  trust  and 
faith  in  him. 

As  they  passed  out  of  the  leafy  copse  they  came  face  to  face 
with  the  baleful  old  fortune-teller,  Hester.  Her  beady  black 
eyes  wore  a  lurid  look  of  rage,  and  she  shook  her  stick  vindie- 
tively  after  the  pair. 

"  She  refuses  him,  and  lie  hurls  him  from  him  like  a  dead 
dog!  But  their  day  will  come — hers  will,  and  soon.  The 
stars  have  told  it." 

She  watched  them  out  of  sight.  They  could  hear  her  plainlj 

crooning  her  own  prophecy,  as  they  walked  over  the  sunlit 

fields: 

••  The  doom  shall  fall  on  Monkswood  Hall! 
Our  Lady  send  her  gracel 
Dark  falls  the  doom  upon  the  last 
Fair  daughter  of  the  racel 

••  The  bat  shall  flit,,  the  owl  shall  hoot, 
Grim  ruin  stalks  with  hnsle! 
The  doom  shall  fall  when  Monkswood  Hall 
Is  changed  to  Monkswood  Wastel" 


Sybil  shuddered  hysterically — Macgregor  only  laughed. 
A  dismal  prediction — melodramatic,  too^  as  anything 


OB 


100 


WHO  wrsrsf 


the  boards  ot  the  Princess's.  The  old  lady  has  a  tarn  for  po^ 
try,  it  would  seem.  Those  verses  must  be  original,  and  ths 
music  also.  I  shall  go  to  her,  seme  day,  and  have  my  fortune 
told.  I  wonder  why  she  honors  you  with  her  especial  hatred?" 

!      **  I  don't  know,'*  Sybil  answered.     *'  I  never  injured  her. 

•  As  a  child,  I  remember,  she  was  the  only  living  thing  I  ever 
feared.     She  always  se    m  i  to  hate  me.  and  she  has  sung  that 
dreary  rhyme  after  me  whenever  she  has  met  me," 
"  I  think  I  know,"  Macgregor  said,  coldly. 

"  Vou  know!"  The  violet  eyes  looked  up  at  him  in  won- 
der. There  was  a  curious  smile  upon  his  face  as  he  met  her 
gaze. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  know.  I  will  tell  you  some  day.  Miss  Tre- 
vanion,  and  many  more  things  than  that — when  I  can  muster 
courage.  Here  we  are  at  your  gates.    For  the  present,  adieu." 

Sybil's  eyes  fell,  her  color  rose,  and  her  heart  beat.  And 
Macgregar  was  already  gone  when  the  sweet  voice  called  faintly 
after  him: 

"  Mr.  Macgregor  I" 

lie  turned  round. 

"  You  will  not — promise  me,  you  will  not — quarrel  with  my 
—with  Colonel  Trevanion.  He  has  been  sufficiently  punished 
already." 

"  An  opinion  which  that  gallant  officer  shares,  I'll  take  my 
oath,"  Macgregor  said,  with  one  of  his  frank,  careless  laughs. 
"  No,  Miss  Trevanion,  we  won't  fight  a  duel,  or  anything  of 
that  sort.  It's  against  my  principles,  and  the  colonel's,  too,  I 
think.     Set  your  mind  at  rest.     He  will  trouble  us  no  more." 

He  lifted  his  hat,  and  strode  over  the  August  fields,  with 
the  amused  smile  fading  from  his  face,  and  leaving  it  set  and 
stern. 

*'  The  coward!"  he  muttered;  "  the  craven  hound!    Scoun- 

)  irel  as  he  is,  1  did  not  think  there  was  enough  base  blood  in 

him  for  the  dastardly  deed  of  to-day.     And  to  think  that  he 

should  be  my —    By  Jove!  what  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to 

shoot  him." 

He  passed  on  through  the  fields  and  woods,  past  the  spot 
where  he  had  vanquished  the  hero  of  the  Crimea.  That  fallen 
hero  was  there  no  longer.  No;  crouched  in  the  dense  dark- 
ness of  the  tall  ferns  and  underwood,  he  cowered,  a  loaded 
pistol  in  his  hand,  the  devil  of  murder  in  either  eye.  Twice 
ue  raised  it,  pointing  straic^ht  at  Macgregor,  and  twice  his  in- 
vincible cowardice  overcame  him,  and  it  fell. 

"  Corse  himl"  he  hissed,  glaring  with  woliish^  groen  ^as; 


'-■'jrfi*  ■ '  "■ '  f-  y'  ■'-.- 


WKO  wnrsF 


m 


**  I  am  afraid  ot  him  even  here.    I  can't  fhoot    I'll  wait-^ 
Vli  see  Edith  first— I'll  find  the  will,  and  then-^ntf  then  I" 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HBS.  IKGBAM's  masked  BATTERY. 

Miss  Trevanion's  first  act,  upon  finding  herself  alone, 
was  to  go  up  to  her  bedroom  and  indulge  in  Uiat  purely  femi- 
nine luxury,  a  "  splendid  cry."  She  was  a  heroine,  no  doubt, 
and  had  behaved  as  such,  her  drums  beating  and  colors  flying 
in  the  heat  of  the  battle;  but  when  the  battle  was  over  ana 
the  field  her  own,  she  buried  her  fair  face  in  the  pillows  and 
Bobbed  piteously  a  full  hour  by  her  watch.  Who  kriows? 
Jeanne  d'Arc  and  Mile.  Corday  and  Mrs.  Caudle  were  strong- 
minded  ladies,  too,  about  whose  courage  there  is  no  doubt: 
and  yet,  perhaps  after  the  enemy  was  routed,  and  the  Friend 
of  the  People  aead  in  his  bath,  and  Mr.  Caudle  snubbed  until 
death  would  have  been  a  relief,  these  heroic  females  may  have 
relieved  their  womanly  hearts  by  the  strongest  sort  of  hyster- 
ics. History  is  silent;  but  women  will  be  women,  and  it  10 
rot  at  all  unlikely. 

The  heiress  of  Trevanion  was  not  the  least  in  the  world 
itrong-minded;  but  she  had  the  pride  of  three  or  four  cent* 
nries  of  proud  men  and  women  in  her  veins.  They  had  been 
terrible  warriors  in  their  day,  these  Trevan ions— had  stormed 
Antioch  and  entered  Jerusalem — had  been  slaughtered  afc 
Flodden,  at  Chevy  Chase,  at  Marston  Moor,  at  Waterloo,  any* 
where  you  like,  at  the  pleasure  of  the  king — had  been  shot 
through  the  heart  in  no  end  of  duels  for  their  own.  They  had 
been  tremendous  fellows  in  border  raids  and  civil  wars;  and  in 
"  affairs  of  honor  '*  the  deadliest  shots,  the  most  admirable 
swordsmen,  the  neatest  hands  with  the  rapier  you  could  find 
in  the  three  kingdoms;  and  the  fiery  blood  7iever  cooled  down 
enough  to  create  one  politician,  one  prelate,  or  one  statesman. 
And  this  impetuous,  impassioned,  fiery  current  ran  in  the 
vems  of  one  tall,  slender  girl  of  nineteen  as  hotly  as  it  ever 
beat  in  old  Earl  Malise  Trevanion,  who  fought  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  the  Lion  Heart  many  and  many  a  year  syne. 
And  she  had  been  insulted-  -the  deadliest,  the  deepest  of  in- 
sults, and  by  her  own  blood  too — by  her  dastardly,  cowardly 
cousin  I 

**  How  dare  hel  how  dare  he!"  Miss  Trevanion  sobbed,  her 
eyes  flashing  stormily  through  her  hot  tears.  **  1  will  XLQiv^t 
forgive  him— never^  to  my  dying  dayl" 


16% 


WHO  wiiraP 


And  then,  like  a  sunburst  through  a  thunder-cloud,  cams 
the  memory  of  another  face,  of  another  form — brave,  kingly, 
grand!  And  Sybil,  the  hero- worshiper,  the  adorer  of  manly 
strength  and  physical  courage,  tingled  all  over  as  she  remem- 
bered with  what  enchanting  ease  this  magnificent  Macgregor 
had  lifted  her  six-foot  cousin  and  hurled  him,  crashing, 
among  the  ferns,  like  an  overgrown  wax  doll.  And  even  on 
the  instant  his  face,  as  it  had  looked  when  turned  to  her — 
gentle,  courteous,  kind  as  a  woman's — rose  up,  and  Sybil  cov- 
ered her  own  face,  hot  with  virginal  blushes  now,*  in  both 
hands,  and  knew  that  she  loved  this  stalwart  conqueror  with 
her  whole  heart. 

**  *  A  gentleman  by  courtesy  and  the  grace  of  God.'  "  Sybil 
thought  of  the  old  words.  *'  Brave  as  a  lion,  strong  as  an- 
other Hercules,  gentle  as  a  lady,  talented,  handsome,  weli-bred. 
Ah  I  a  Queen  might  be  proud  of  loving  him." 

Miss  Trevanion  wiped  away  her  tears  after  a  little,  and  went 
about  the  house  with  a  face  of  such  radiant,  rosy  loveliness, 
that  even  Charley  was  roused  out  of  his  normal  calm  indiffer- 
ence to  all  sublunary  things  into  gazing  at  her  in  some  sur- 
prise and  more  approbation. 

**  Eeally,  my  dear  Sybil,  you  are  growing  good-looking! 
Have  you  been  consulting  Madame  Rachel  on  the  *  beautiful 
forever  *  dodge?  Macgregor  told  me  yesterday  that  you  re- 
sembled me  very  strongly,  and,  egad,  I  begin  to  see  the  re- 
semblance myself. ' ' 

"  You  conceited  hobbledehoy!"    Sybil  said,  laughing,  and 
blushing   enchantingly;    "  your  friend,  Mr.  Macgregor,  has 
very  little  taste.     He  has  not  fallen  in  love  with  the  prettiest ' 
woman  in  the  county — Mrs.  Ingram.'' 

**  You  wish  he  would,  don't  you?"  Charley  said,  with  a  sol- 
emn twinkle  of  his  blue  eyes.  "  It's  time  enough,  however — 
he's  only  met  her  once.  He's  going  there  this  evening,  and 
he  dines  there  on  Sunday;  each  time  the  widow  will  be  more 
irresistible  than  the  other,  and  the  man  isn't  alive  who  can 
resist  Mrs.  Ingram's  superhuman  charms  three  times  run- 
ning," 

Sybil  laughed,  but  rather  constrainedly. 

**  You  speak  from  experience,  no  doubt.  1  do  more  justice 
to  Mr.  Macgregor's  common  sense.  By  the  bye,  how  about 
that  episode  of  the  picture — the  '  Rose  full  of  Thorns,'  you 
know?  How  does  the  artist  account  for  the  accidental  resem- 
blance?" 

**  He  doesn't  try  to  account  for  it,"  Charley  responded; 

imd  I  don't  believe  it  is  accidental    My  opinion  is  thftt  the 


•< 


WHO    WINS? 


U9 


thorny  rose  is  the  elegant  Edith  herself,  and  that  she  and 
Angus  Macgregor  know  each  other  better  than  they  choose  to 
explain." 

"And  yet,"  Sybil  said,  nervously,  **  they  met  as  utter 
strangers,  did  they  not?  Mrs.  Ingram  showed  no  sign  of  sur- 
prise or  recognition?" 

"  No.  She's  a  little  Talleyrand  in  ringlets.  Her  face  told 
nothing,  and  Macgregor's  moves  as  much,  when  he  doesn't 
wish  it,  as  that  marble  Memnon's.  Still,  I'm  positive  Mac- 
gregor could  light  up  the  mysterious  little  widow's  past,  if  he 
chose.  I  as  good  as  told  him  so,  and  he  didn't  deny  it.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  he  will  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  before  our  cousin 
Cyril  quarters  her  on  the  family  escutcheon.  And  that  re- 
minds me,"  Charley  said,  rising  on  his  elbow  and  staring  at 
his  sister.  "  What  the  deuce  have  you  been  doing  to  Colonel 
Trevanion?" 

**  I?    Don't  be  ridiculous,  Charley!    Nothing,  of  course." 

**  I'm  not  ridiculous,  and  you  have  been  doing  something. 
Don't  fall  into  the  immoral  habit  of  telling  falsehoods.  Miss 
Trevanion!  You  and  he  leave  here  this  morning  together,  as 
amicably  as  the  two  *  Babes  in  the  Wood,'  the  grewsome 
colonel  absolutely  lightening  up  into  smiles.  An  hour  or  so 
after,  the  colonel  returns,  solus,  looking  like  the  ace  of 
spades,  or  an  incarnate  thunder-clap,  orders  out  Czar  in  the 
Voice  of  a  stentor,  mounts,  and  rides  off  as  if  the  dickens  were 
after  him.  And  Calves,  the  new  footman,  comes  up  with  a 
half  sovereign  in  his  hand,  and  a  look  of  densest  amaze  in  his 
face,  and  tells  me  the  *  cunnel  guv  him  that,  with  borders  to 
pack  hup  his  clothes  and  things,  which  he'd  send  for  them  hin 
the  course  of  the  day.'  " 

"Then  he  has  gone,"  Sybil  ejaculated,  very  pale,  "and 
for  good!" 

**  For  no  good,  I  should  say,  judging  by  his  look.     Did  you 

five  him  his  dismissal,  out  walking,  Sybil,  or  has  the  widow 
one  it,  or  what?  By  Jove!  if  the  mystery  of  the  old  gen- 
eral's disappearance  is  ever  cleared  up,  v^d  that  other  will 
found,  it  will  be  a  black  day  for  yoi^.  lou  need  look  for  no 
mercy  from  Cyril  Trevanion." 

"  I  never  shall.  He  could  shoot  me  this  moment,  I  dare 
say,  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  Don't  say  anything  to  mam- 
ma, Charley,"  turning  to  go.  **  She  fidgets  so,  and  asks  so 
many  questions. " 

Charley  was  correct  about  the  colonel.  He  had  picked  him- 
self up  out  of  the  fern  and  underbrush,  little  the  worse  for  his 
fall^  ^tien  Macgregor  and  Sybil  walked  out  of  sight.    He  had 


154 


WHO   WINS? 


reached  the  house,  mounted  the  Czar,  and  returned  to  tbfl 
scene  of  the  disaster,  to  lie  in  wait,  with  a  pistol  in  his  hand 
and  murder  in  his  heart,  for  the  return  of  his  conqueror.  But 
he  could  not  fire;  his  desperate  resolve  failed;  the  weapon  iell 
useless  in  his  grasp,  and  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor  walked  un- 
harmed into  the  security  of  the  Retreat. 

The  Crimean  hero  emerged  from  the  hiding-place,  re- 
mounted the  Czar,  and  rode  over  to  Chudleigh  Chase.  It 
wanted  scarce  half  an  hour  Lo  luncheon-time,  and  he  found  his 
Dashing  White  Sergeant  improving  her  appetite  for  that  meai 
by  a  centle  saunter  uji  and  down  the  terrace.  Brightly  beauti- 
ful she  looked  in  the  sparkling  sunlight,  her  fresh  pink  robe 
fluttering  in  the  faint  sea-breeze,  her  silky  black  hair  hanging 
half  loose  and  uncurled  witn  the  hear,,  her  ribbons  and  lace 
fluttering,  a  cluster  of  roses  in  her  bosom,  and  the  long,  velvet 
eyes  more  dewy  and  lustrous  than  ever.  The  pretty  face  was 
just  a  trifle  weary,  too;  she  had  been  fascinating  the  baronet 
all  morning,  and  it  is  somewhat  fatiguing  to  play  the  role  of 
Princess  Charming  for  three  hours  at  a  stretch.  She  turned 
to  the  colonel  and  held  out  her  taper  fingers. 

"  I  thought  you  would  come;  you  and  I,  my  colonel,  are  en 
rapport.  And  I  left  Sir  Rupert,  who  never  eats  luncheon,  to 
await  you  here.  Have  you  bad  news  to  tell  me,  or  why  else 
wear  that  midnight  scowl?  Have  we  been  proposing  to  La 
Princesse,  and  has  La  Princesse  snubbed  us  incontinently  for 
our  pains?" 

**  You  guess  so  well,**  Cyril  said,  sarcastically,  "  that  you 
leave  me  little  to  tell.  Yes,  madame,  I  have  obeyed  your 
orders  implicitly,  and  been  rejected  with  scorn.** 

He  ground  his  teeth  at  the  recollection. 

Mrs.  Ingram  shrugged  her  graceful  shoulders. 

"  Yes,  1  should  think  so;  it  v/ould  require  some  courage  to 
accept  so  grim  a  suitor.  She  rejected  you,  and  that  face,  of 
course.     But  is  there  no  appeal  from  her  decision?" 

"  None,**  he  said,  moodily.  ''  You  should  have  heard  her. 
By  Jove!  it  reminded  me  of  Lola  Montez  facing  the  Bavarian 
students—her  fiery  eloquence.  It  was  the  deadliest  of  insults 
— she  would  never  forgive  me  to  her  dying  day.  My  tender 
declaration  ended  in  a  rather  stormy  scene." 

Colonel  Trevanion  did  r  ot  choose  to  enlighten  the  widow 
fn^'viier.  It  was  not  in  huii?an  nature  to  tell  the  woman  he 
loved  how  ignominiously  he  hatt  been  treated  by  the  tenant  of 
the  Retreat. 

"  And  you  really  quarreled  with  the  heiress.  You  ridiculout 
blunderer!    You  must  try  and  make  it  up  at  once.'* 


WHO   Wt»S? 


160 


to  t^ 

s  band 
)r.  But 
3011  ieil 
ed  uu. 


"•  i  will  n^rfver  make  it  up.  I  will  never  try  to  make  it  upl" 
Cyril  Trevanion  said,  fiercely.  "  I  will  never  go  back  theri 
again,  unless  I  go  as  master — unless  I  go  to  turn  the  wholt 
Lemox  clan,  neck  and  crop,  out*' 

*•  What  do  you  mean?" 

"  That  I  shall  find  the  lost  will,  by  Heaven  I  if  the  devil  baa 
not  carried  it  and  the  old  general  off  bodily  to  Pandemonium. " 

The  widow  laughed. 

*'  Hear  him!"  she  said,  "  this  Prodigal  Son,  this  Russian 
hero — and  he  speaks  of  his  father  I  "What  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

**  What  sJio  told  me  to  do — tear  the  old  house  stone  from 
stone,  uproot  the  very  trees,  search  every  rood  of  the  estate, 
and  find  the  dead  man  and  the  lost  document.  Dark  as  the 
mystery  is,  I  will  lighten  it  yet,  and  you  will  help  me,  Edith 
— Inajram." 

"  Will  1?"  with  supreme  carelessness.  "  I  am  not  so  sure 
of  that.     Besides,  how  do  you  know  I  can  ?" 

She  looked  up;  he  looked  down;  their  eyes  met.  The  next 
instant  he  had  grasped  her  hand  in  a  vise-like  grip. 

**  Edith,"  he  hissed,  '*  yott  knoio  !  The  secret  of  Monks- 
wood  Waste  is  no  secret  to  you!  Help  me  find  that  will — the 
will  that  leaves  Cyril  Trevanion  fifteen  thousand  a  year — and 
share  it  with  me!  Be  my  wife,  my  qneen,  my  idol!  Cast  oflE 
this  white-haired  old  baronet,  triumph  over  the  girl  who  in- 
sulted and  turned  you  out.  Be  my  wife;  turn  her  out;  spend 
money  like  water.     Edith,  Edith,  help  me  find  the  will!" 

She  drew  her  breath  quickly;  her  color  rose  and  faded;  the 
roses  on  her  bosom  heaved  with  the  couiiict  within, 

**  Sir  liuport  Chudleigh's  rent-roll  is  but  eight  thousand  a 
year,  and  ten  to  one  if  his  infernal  pride  will  ever  let  him 
marry  you—  a  nobody,  an  adventuress.  The  heir  of  General 
Trevanion  comes  into  fifteen  thousand  per  annum,  unencum- 
bered, and  will  marry  you  out  of  hand.  And  you  are  not  the 
woman  I  take  you  to  be  if  the  triumph  over  Sybil  Lemox  is 
not  worth  a  duke's  ransom." 

The  handsome  widow  looked  at  him  a  little  contemptu- 
ously. 

**  How  spiteful  ycu  can  be — for  a  hero— and  how  eloquent 
bate  makes  the  stupidest.  Yes,  I  sJimild  like  to  triumph  over 
Miss  Trevanion,  and  iLere  are  very  few  things  I  would  not 
risk  to  attain  that  victory.  But  you — you  ask  a  little  too 
much.  And,  in  the  very  hour  of  triumph,  this  odious  Mao- 
l^regor  will  step  forward  ^and  denounce  you  as  a  cheat  and  an 
ampoBtor." 


166 


WHO    WINS? 


**  He  can  prove  nothing.  Cyril  Trevanion  is  dead.  They 
will  only  think  him  a  madman.  Let  him  do  his  worst  I 
defy  him  I" 

**  At  a  safe  distance,"  the  widow  retorted,  with  a  sneer. 
\  She  despised  the  man  beside  her,  and  shot  her  poisoned  shafts 
'  remorselessly.     **  Still,  you  ask  too  much.     I  know  nothing 
of  General  Trevanion  or  the  lost  will." 

Colonel  Trevanion  wheeled  round,  without  a  word. 

"  Be  it  so,  Edith  Ingram.  I  will  plead  no  more.  I  will 
find  the  will  for  myself.  1 7uiH  find  it,  I  tell  you,  and  then  " 
— a  tremendous  oath — "  I'll  show  i/ou  no  mercyl  I'll  hunt 
you  out  of  the  countyl  PU  spend  every  shilling  of  it  in  hunt- 
ing you  down!  And  if  I  clonH  find  it  " — another  blood-curd- 
line  blasphemy — "  I'll  have  your  life!" 

The  man's  eyes  glowed  like  coals  of  fire.  He  meant  what 
he  said,  at  the  moment.  The  devil  within  him  was  fully 
roused. 

Edith  Ingram  looked  at  him  in  amaze — in  no  terror,  though, 
whatever — and,  for  the  first  time,  perhaps,  began  to  respect 
him  a  little.  Women  will  honor  the  man  who  proves  himself 
their  master. 

"  Colonel  Trevanion,  how  often  must  I  request  you  not  to 
swear  in  my  presence?  Do  you  suppose  I,  an  instructress  of 
youth  and  innocence,  alias  Gwendoline  Chudleigh,  can  counte- 
nance such  immorality?  And  you  are  fully  bent  on  finding 
the  will?" 

"  I  have  said  so,"  doggedly. 

**  And  if  you  find  it,  with  my  help,  you  are  ready  that  in- 
stant to  make  me  your  wife?" 

"77^/5  instant,  if  you  wish." 

"  You  swear  it?" 

"  Bah!  as  if  that  were  any  security!  I  swear  it  ten  thou- 
sand times,  if  you  please.     You  will  help  me,  then?" 

The  widow  did  not  immediately  reply.  The  dull,  chalky 
pallor  that  sometimes  crept  over  her  face  showed  ghastly  now 
under  her  rouge.     She  shivered,  too,  in  the  sultry  air. 

*'  You  will  help  me?"  Cyril  Trevanion  repeated,  breath- 
lessly. **  Edith,  my  love,  my  life,  tell  me  where  to  find  this 
will  that  makes  me  the  richest  commoner  in  the  county,  and 
you  my  wife!" 

She  turned  away  from  him,  ghastly  white  with  some  inward 
dread. 

**  Give  me  until  this  evening  to  think,"  she  said,  hoarsely, 
**  You  don't  know  what  you  ask;  you  don't  know  how  horri- 
W«— "    She  broke  off  abruptly.     **  Go — go — ^go!"  she  said. 


Sh( 

car 

at 


Thet 


sneer. 

shafts 

nothing 


I  will 
then '' 

hunt 
hunt- 
-curd- 


WHo  wnrsf 


10? 


almost  paflsionately.  "  I  can  not  decide  now.  Come  to-night 
—come  to  dinner.  It  is  Liberty  Hall  here,  you  know;  ana  I 
will  give  you  your  answer  then." 

She  broke  from  him  as  she  spoke;  he  had  caught  her  hand. 
She  wrenched  it  violently  away,  and  fled  into  the  house. 

Cyril  Trevanion  looked  after  her  blankly. 

"  She  does  know,  then,"  he  said.  "  Good  heavensl  sha 
can't  have  murdered  the  old  man,  after  all." 

A  moment  after,  as  he  mounted  Czar,  he  could  have  laughed 
at  his  own  absurd  supposition. 

"  She  wouldn't  do  it,"  he  said.  "  She  has  the  pluck;  but 
there  was  no  motive  that  /  can  see.  And  how  could  she  mur- 
der him,  and  what  could  she  do  with  the  body?  And  yet  she 
knows.  It  is  all  a  muddle;  but  to-night  wili  end  it.  She  need 
not  have  taken  the  time  to  decide.  She  will  do  as  I  wish  her 
when  the  time  comes.  This  night  will  solve  the  mystery  of 
Monkswood  Waste." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BEFORE  THE  STORM. 

It  is  an  ill  wind,  they  say,  which  blows  nobody  good.  The 
wind  which  would  blow  Mrs.  Ingram  into  the  matrimonial 
arms  of  Sir  Rupert  would  be  the  very  illest  of  all  ill  winds  to 
Sir  Rupert's  only  daughter;  but,  pending  that  evil  time,  the 
hours  which  the  fascinating  widow  spent  bewitching  him  were 
hours  of  freedom  and  joy  to  Gwen. 

When  the  so-called  governess  sailed  off  in  grand  style  to  the 
baronet's  study,  of  a  morning,  to  write  his  letters,  examine  his 
accounts,  and  read  George  Sand  and  Alfred  de  Musset,  it  was 
with  the  understanding  that  the  young  lady  she  was  "  form- 
ing "  would  spend  those  hours  in  piano-forte  exercise,  or 
**  doing "  a  French  composition,  or  spelling  out  a  decent 
English  essay;  and  Gwendoline  listened  to  her  orders  and  di- 
rection with  a  face  of  preternatural  and  owl-like  solemnity, 
and  answered  never  a  word. 

But  no  sooner  was  the  school-room  door  closed  upon  the 
graceful  little  figure  of  the  widow  than  Miss  Chudleigh  bounced 
up,  pitched  "  Telemp^que  "  into  the  furthest  corner  of  the 
apartment,  hurled  aside  writing-books  and  music-sheets,  and 
scampered  off  to  her  room. 

Fifteen  minutes  after  she  would  emerge  in  her  green  riding- 
habit  and  scarlet  plume,  mount  her  big,  spirited  black  horse. 
Flash  of  Lightning;  and,  like  young  LochinvMr,  they'd  "  hay* 


108 


WHO    WINB  f 


fleet  steeds  who  followed  '*  and  orertook  the  heiress  of  Child* 
leiflrh  Chase. 

I  am  not  prepared  to  say  how  Miss  Gwendoline  passed  thoM 
long,  delightful  summer  days,  free  as  any  gypsy  girl  that  ever 
roamed  the  green  wood.  She  galloped  miles  aud  miles  over 
the  golden  Sussex  downs,  and  very  rarely  alone. 

There  was  a  certain  young  lieutenant  in  that  rifle  brigade  at 
Speckhaven,  whoso  father  had  amassed  millions  in  the  tallow 
trade,  who  almost  always  was  Miss  Chudleigh's  companion  on 
these  free-and-easy  canters. 

Gwen  didn't  care  for  the  tallow  trade,  not  being  proud;  nor 
for  the  millions,  not  being  mercenary;  but  Lieutenant  Dobbs 
had  ambrosial  whiskers,  which  curled  themselves  round  her 
susceptible  heart  in  no  time,  and  beautiful,  pathetic  brown 
eyes  that  flnished  her  at  first  sight. 

There  wasn't  much  in  the  gallant  rifleman's  head,  perhaps^ 
Buc  when  the  outside  was  thatched  with  such  a  lovely  crop  oi 
curling  brown  hair,  what  did  that  signify?  And  though  the 
young  lier-tenant  did  write  his  name  ignoble  Dobbs,  no  scion 
of  the  noble  houses  of  Howard,  or  Mortimer,  or  Montmorenci, 
could  ever  have  been  gifted  by  benign  nature  with  smaller  or 
shapelier  hands  and  feet,  or  a  straight er  nose. 

1  es,  Lieutenant  Dobbs  was  an  uncommonly  handsome  young 
man,  and  his  strong  points  were  his  extremities,  and  those 
dark,  liquid  eyes.  His  whole  soul  might  be  concentrated  on 
the  favorite  for  the  Derby,  or  the  newest  pretty  ballet  girl's 
ankles,  or  the  set  of  his  neck-tie;  and  he  would  look  up  at 
you  with  those  melancholy  brown  orbs,  until  you  could  have 
taken  your  affidavit  he  was  composing  some  mournfully  ethe- 
real poem,  or  been  jilted  by  a  duchess  at  least. 

Miss  Chudleigh  was  hopelessly  enslaved  by  those  wonderful 
eyes,  and  paid  the  most  energetic  attention  to  their  owner, 
who,  being  pretty  well  used  to  it,  on  all  hands,  with  the  tal- 
low merchant's  thousands  to  back  the  eyes  up,  took  it  very 
easily,  and  submitted  to  being  loved,  and  petted,  and  spoiled 
with  that  sublime  condescension  characteristic  of  his  lordly  | 

B6X* 

But  there  were  black-letter  days  in  the  calendar,  when 
Lieutenant  Dobbs  was  on  duty,  and  couldn't  escort  the  bar- 
onet's daughter  over  the  breezy  downs,  and  on  these  occa- 
sions Gwendoline  magnanimously  rode  over  to  see  her  friend 
Sybil. 

The  day  on  which  Mrs.  Ingram  and  Cyril  Trevanion  had 
held  their  little  conference  on  the  terrace  chanced  to  be  one  of 
them. 


*< 


WHO  wnrtf 


Wf 


The  gorerness  and  pupil  eat  luncheon  alone,  and  after  thi() 
repast,  Mra.  Ingram  returned  to  the  study  to  finish  a  French 
novel  in  which  the  lazy  baron  was  interested. 

"  And  you  will  practice  the  *  Battle  of  Prague '  for  two 
hours  at  least,  Gwendoline,"  she  said,  with  austerity.  *'  It  ii 
perfectly  disgraceful,  your  time  and  your  fingeriug,  consider- 
uig  the  pains  1  have  taken  to  improve  you." 

'*  I'll  see  the  '  Battle  of  Prague,'  and  Mrs.  Ingram  with  it, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Red  Sea  first!"  retorted  Gwendoline, 
defiantly,  to  the  closed  door.  "I'll  go  down  and  see  Mary 
Carson,  and  then  I'll  ride  across  to  Trevanion  Park  and  see 
Sybil.  Plantiwgenet  " — the  lieutenant  was  Piantagenet  Stan- 
ley Dobbs — *'  Piantagenet  promised  to  meet  me  at  the  corner 
of  High  Street,  Spockhaven,  at  half  past  five." 

Miss  Chudleigh  dressed,  mounted  Fla^^h  ot  Lightning,  and 
rode,  like  Don  Quixote,  in  search  of  adventures.  Two  hours 
later  she  presented  herself  at  Trevanion  Park,  and  as  she  rode 
up  the  avenue,  she  beheld  her  friend  and  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor 
loitering  lazily  up  and  down  the  leafy  arcades.  Sybil  advanced 
to  meet  her,  her  color  rising  at  the  cunning  twinkle  in  Gwen'a 
eyes. 

**  I  thought  you  would  come,"  she  said.  **  I  knew  the  lieu- 
tenant would  be  on  duty  to-day.  But  how  unusually  late  you 
are." 

Miss  Trevanion,  of  course,  was  the  confidential  recipient  of 
Miss  Chudleigh's  love  passages.  The  lieutenant  hadn't  as  yet 
proposed — he  was  rather  an  indolent  young  gentleman,  and 
disliked  putting  himself  out  about  such  trifles;  but  Gwendo- 
line had  strong  hopes  of  a  speedy  understanding. 

"  If  he  doesn't  say  something  very  shortly,"  Miss  Chud- 
leigh had  informed  her  friend,  "I  shall  demand  his  intentions. 
And  if  he  makes  the  least  demur,  I  shall  call  him  out  and 
shoot  him!  I  have  been  practicing  lately  in  the  park.  Ser- 
geant Cox,  of  the  Tenth,  gives  me  lessons,  and  I  almost  sent 
a  bullet  through  Tommy  Ruggles  yesterday.  I  have  no 
brother,"  said  this  helpless  little  girl,  **  and  papa  is  a  great 
deal  too  lazy  and  a  great  deal  too  taken  up  with  thai;  painted 
wax-doll  of  ours  to  mind  whether  his  daughter's  best  atXections, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  is  trifled  with  or  not.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  say  are  trifled  with;  but  grammar  be  blowed!" 

She  sprung  off  her  horse  unw,  nodding  to  the  tall  Mac- 
gregor, and  declining  his  aid  to  dismount. 

*'  Thanky,"  said  Gwendoline,  '*  but  I  don't  take  kindly  to 
civilian  coat-sleeves;  and  beoides,  I  could  jump  off  a  ten-iwt 
wall,  much  less  Flash's  back.    Yes,  I  am  late  to-day,  Sybii; 


i«a 


WHO    WllfSf 


but  I  ehonldn't  have  thought  you'd  hare  missed  me,  with  a 
gentleman  of  Mr.  Macgregor's  brilliant  parts  for  a  compazi" 


ion. 


"  If  all  tho  world  were  around  her,  she  would  still  be  soli- 
tary and  alone  without  her  charming  Gwendoline,*'  retorted 
Macgregor.  "  Were  you  on  parade  with  Dobbs,  or  dining  at 
the  mess,  or  pistol-shooting  with  Sergeant  What's-his-name, 
or  extorting  a  proposal  from  the  lieutenant,  or  wluU  detaiued 
you?''     > 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  my  private  and  personal  habits  con- 
cern you  in  any  way,  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor,*'  Gwendoline  an- 
swered, with  dignity.  **  No,  I  wasn't  on  parade  with  Dobbs, 
or  dining  at  the  moss,  althoiig^h  I  would  if  I  took  the  notion. 
I  went  to  see  poor  Mary  Carson,  who  is  dying,  and  then  I  was 
playing  *  Looker-on  in  Venice  ' — playing  spy,  eavesdropping, 
or  something  like  it." 

"  My  dpni  Gwen!"  Sybil  said. 

"  My  dear  Sybil — yes!  When  I  left  Carson's  cottage,  I 
rode  along  by  Monkswood  Priory,  and  through  the  Prior's 
Walk,  and  out  of  the  west  gate — a  short  cut  here,  as  you  know 
— and  1  was  in  a  hurry.  And  who  do  you  think  I  saw  talking 
like  two  lovers,  under  the  trees?  Why,  your  precious  cousin, 
Sybil,  and  old  Mother  Hester — the  '  IJevil's  Own,'  as  Planty 
calls  her  " — J^lanty  being  short  for  Plantagenet. 

**  And  you  stopped,  of  course,  Gwen,  and  listened  to  what 
they  said?     suggested  Colonel  Trevanion's  tenant. 

**  No,  I  didn't.  Impertinence!  Do  you  suppose  he  was  get- 
ting his  fortune  told,  Sybil?  Is  he  an  idiot  as  well  as  a  cow- 
ard? You  should  have  seen  how  terribly  in  earnest  they  were, 
and  they  scurried  apart  like  a  brace  of  wild  ducks  at  sight  of 
Flash  and  me.  Ought  that  be  Flash  and  I,  Mr.  Macgregor? 
You  write  books,  and  should  know." 

"Perhaps  old  Hester  was  promising  him  a  pretty  little 
widow  for  a  wife,"  Macgregor  said;  "  he  won't  think  much  of 
her  prediction  otherwise." 

"1  rather  fancy  he  proposed  this  noon,"  said  Gwen;  *'  thay 
were  on  the  terrace,  Mrs.  1.  and  Colonel  T.,  before  luncheoi, 
and  they  looked  agitated.  I  think  1  should  look  agitated  if 
Planty  proposed." 

"  And  more  agitated  if  he  didn't,"  interposed  that  wretch, 
Macgregor. 

**  Oh,  don't  you  say  anything!'*'  axclaimed  Miss  Chudleigh, 
in  defiance;  **  that  widow  has  done  for  you  at  some  past  time, 
I'll  be  bound.  It's  of  no  use  your  telling  stories  and  denying 
it;  yoq  and  Mrs.  Ingram  knew  each  other  ages  aga" 


WHO    WIKSf 


161 


"I  never  knew  Mrs.  Ingram/'  the  author  answeredi  with 
Imperturbable  calm. 

^^  No?  Then  you  knew  her  under  some  other  name.  Mako 
him  make  a  nlean  breast  of  it,  S^bil — that's  hvo  *  makes  * 
I  close  together — and  tell  us  who  she  is  and  all  about  her." 

**  I  am  not  Mr.  Macgregor's  conscience-keeper,  my  dear, 
impetuous  Gwendoline,  said  Miss  Trevanion,  carelessly,  "  and 
I  really  don't  take  the  mterest  in  her  some  others  appear  to 
do.  She  isn't  rnj/  governess,  remember,  and  she  isn't  my  step- 
maramji-elect;  nor  have  I  a  PJantagenot  Stanley  Dobbs  to  be 
perverted  and  made  eyes  at.  If  Mr.  Macgreeor  has  Mrs.  In- 
gram's past  life  in  his  keeping,  he  may  retain  lier  secret  invio- 
late to  the  end,  for  me.*' 

•*  Which,  in  plain  English,  means  she  is  dying  to  hear 
them!"  cried  the  incorrigible  Gwen,  seizing  Macgregor  by  the 
arm.  "  For  pity's  sake,  nave  a  little  compassion  on  me  !  Tell 
me  all  about  her.  She  ivill  marry  papa,  m  spite  of  him,  be- 
fore the  year  ends,  if  you  don't  show  her  up;  and  if  she  does, 
i  declare  Pll  strychnine  myself  on  the  weddmg-day,  and  haunt 
you,  Angus  Macgregor,  forever  after!" 

**  Sooner  than  that,  I  would  betray  my  bosom  friend.  Miss 
Chudleigh.  Well,  then,  yes,"  with  sudden  gravity,  **  you  are 
right;  1  haiw  known  Mrs.  Ingram  in  the  past." 

"Hooray!"  Gwendoline  threw  up  her  hat  and  caught  it, 
like  a  conjurer,  as  it  fell.  "  Didn't  1  always  say  so?  Didn't 
I  always  know  so?  What  do  you  think  now,  Sybil?  And 
she's  your  *  rose  full  of  thorns,'  isn't  she?" 

**  Yes;  her  name  is  Rose,  not  Edith;  and  that  is  her  picture 
as  I  knew  her  many  years  ago." 

"  '  Many  years  ago!'  There  it  is  again!  I  always  said  she 
was  as  old  as^the  hills,  and  that  it  was  only  paint  and  pearl- 
powder  and  belladonna  and  false  hair  and  padded  <)or — "  Miss 
,  Chudleigh  pulled  herself  up  short,  without  finishing  "  cor- 
sets." *' That  woman's  thirty-five,  if  she's  a  day,  and  she 
calls  herself  seven-and-twenty!  Seven-and-twenty  fiddle- 
sticks!   She  is  thirty-five,  is  she  not?" 

"  Yes,  she  is  fully  thirty-fve;  and  somewhere  in  the 
scheme  of  the  universe  she  has  a  son,  if  still  alive,  eighteen 
years  old." 

"  Then  she  has  been  married,"  Gwen  said,  rather  disap- 
pointed. "  I  was  hoping  she  was  a  horrid  old  maid."  To  be 
an  old  maid  was,  in  Miss  Chudleigh's  estimation  of  things,  the 
most  horrible  of  earthly  dooms.  *'  And  who  was  Ingram,  and 
where  is  he?    Oh,  Mr.   Macgregor,"  clasping  her  chubby 


m 


WHO  wn»  ? 


hands,  "  say  he  is  still  alive,  save  poor  papa,  aid  1*11— m 
kiss  you;  I  declare  I  will  I" 

"  I'll  take  the  kiss,  then.  Miss  Chudleigh,  whenever  you're 
ready;  for,  though  Ingram  is  not  alive — never  existed,  iu  fact; 
is  but  a  myth  and  a  name — another  man  is,  who  was  married 
to  her  over  fifteen  years  ago,  and  never  got  a  divorce.  Don't 
ask  me  his  name,  as  I  see  you  aie  going  to  do,  for  I  can  not 
tell  you  at  present ;  and  all  this,  for  a  little  time  at  least,  must 
be  sub  rosa.  Mrs.  Ingram  will  never  be  Lady  Chudleigh; 
rest  content  with  that.  She  knows  that  I  know  her,  and  she 
will  fight  desperately  to  the  last  gasp.  If  I  show  her  my 
hand,  she  may  win  the  game  yet;  for  she  has  the  dic-oolic^ 
cunning  of  the  Evil  One  himself.  Her  name  is  not  Mrs.  In- 
gram, and  she  is  no  fitting  companion  for  either  you  or  Miss 
Trevanion,  or  any  other  young  girl.  Further  than  that  1 
can  say  nothing  at  present.  Only  wait,  and  don't  take  that 
strychnine.  If  you  conduct  yourself  properly,  and  trust  to  me, 
Plantagenet  will  make  you  a  member  oi  the  haughty  house  of 
Dobbs  yet.  And  as  I  am  due  at  Chudleigh  Chase  this  very 
evem'ng,"  palling  out  his  watch,  **  allov/  me  to  bid  you  good- 
dav,  ladies  both." 

He  departed  with  the  words,  and  Gwendoline  immediately 
laid  hold  of  her  friend  and  drew  her  toward  the  house. 

"  Now,  tlien,  Sybil,  he's  gone,  and  you  must  get  ready  at 
once.  I  declare  I  nearly  forgot  all  about  her,  talking  to  Mac- 
gre^or." 

"Forgot  all  about  whom?" 

**  Why,  Mary  Carson,  of  course.  Didn't  I  tell  you  she  was 
worse?  She's  dying,  Sybil,  and  she's  crying  out  for  you.  You 
were  always  good  to  her,  she  says.  You  gave  her  books,  and 
pretty  dresses,  and  jellies,  and  wine,  and  chickens;  and  you 
eat  and  sung  for  her  the  last  time  you  were  there.  She  can 
not  forget  it.  Her  mother  says  she  has  talked  of  you  ever 
since.     She  wants  to  see  you  again  before  she  dies.'* 

"Poor  child  I"  the  hpiress  said.  "Is  she  then  so  near 
death?" 

"  Mr.  Jelup  was  there  before  I  left.  He  says  she  will  hardly 
last  until  morning.  I  promised  her  I  would  fetch  you,  and 
came  at  once,  and  nearly  forgot  it  with  that  Mr.  Macgregor. 
Nice,  isn't  hfi,  Sybil?  Not  half  so  handsome  as  Plantagenet, 
of  course;  but  then  Planty's  only  one  remove  from  an  angel. 
He  has  nothing  on  earth  to  i^ay,  I  allow,  and  not  a  thought 
Above  the  mess-table  btories,  tho  last  pet  of  the  ballet,  or  the 
lit  of  his  coat.    But  then  he  waltzes  divinely,  and  his  eyes  aro 


WHO  wnwf 


199 


like  the  stars  of  heaven,  and  7  can  do  talking  enough  for 
both." 

Sybil  laughed,  and  rang  for  her  maid.  They  were  up  in  the 
nretty  dressing-room,  all  silver  and  azure  satin  and  delightful 
fittle  cabinet  pictures. 

"Hurry,  now,  Finette,"  Miss  Chudleigh  said.  ** Dress 
your  mistress  in  a  brace  of  shakes!  There  s  a  storm  coming, 
and  if  you  don't  make  especial  haste,  we'll  get  ?j  drenching,  as 
sure  as  a  gun  I" 

A  storm  was  brooding.  Miss  Chudleigh  had  lived  too  many 
years  on  the  Sussex  coast  not  to  know  the  signs. 

A  dull,  stirless  calm  brooded;  the  leaden  sky  lay  on  the 
tree-tops;  the  dull  cannonading  of  the  surf  on  the  shore,  miles 
off.  sounded  audibly  in  the  dry  heat. 

Miss  Trevanion  hastily  exchanged  her    house-dress  for  a 
black  riding-habit,  in  which  the  tall,  supple  figure  looked  ex- 
quisitely.    Her  horse  was  saddled  and  waiting,  and  she  and  ' 
Gwendoline  mounted,  and  cantered  briskly  down  the  avenue. 

**  Tell  Lady  Lemox  Miss  Trevanion  will  not  return  to- 
night,*' called  the  baronet's  daughter  to  the  chamber-maid; 
**  and  send  over  a  dinner-dress  at  once  to  Chudleigh  Chase^ 
Finette." 

Then,  before  Cyril,  in  alarm,  could  Countermand  these 
orders,  Gwen  had  cut  the  heiress's  spirited  steed  across  the 
flanks  with  a  riding-whip,  and  sent  him  dashing  off. 

**.A  race,  Svbil — a  race!  Ten  to  one  Flash  beats  Lady 
Kathleen!" 

The  two  blooded  horses  were  off,  stretching  their  necks  in  a 
furious  gallop,  and  Svbil  had  enough  to  do  without  talking. 

Both  girls  rode  admirably,  sitting  their  fleet  steeds  as  they 
might  their  easy-chairs,  and  the  seven  miles  were  cleared  in 
an  incredibly  short  space  of  time.  Flash  of  Lightning  coming 
in  winner  by  a  neck. 

**  I  knew  I  would  beat,"  Gwendoline  said.  "  Here  we  ai-e, 
Sybil,  and  we  have  dodged  the  storm.  The  *  avenging  ele- 
ments '  will  have  a  regular  blow-out  before  morning. 

They  entered  the  gates.  At  the  lodge  door  an  old  woman 
stood,  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  crying  and  courtesying.  It 
was  Ihe  Widow  Carson,  whose  daughter  lay  dying. 

"How  is  Mary,  Mrs.  Carson?"  Sybil  asked,  gently. 

"  Dying,  miss — many  thanks  to  you  for  your  goodness  In 
coming.  I'm  afeard  she  won't  know  you  now;  but  she  iaves 
of  you  continual.     Please  to  come  in." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  lodge,  the  young  ladies  followii^g 


194 


▼HO  ymxnf 


I 


Half  an  hour—an  hour — two — passed;  and  still  \they  did  not 
return. 

Sybil's  sweet  Tolce  came  borne  out,  singing  to  plensc  thft 
dying  girl.  The  sultry,  oppressive  afternoon  aarkened  down; 
the  thunder  muttered  ominously  in  the  distance;  big  drops  be- 
gan to  plash  on  thd  flags. 

The  great  bell  of  the  manor  house  pealed  forth  its  notire  to 
all  whom  it  might  concern  that  the  family  at  Chudleigh  Chat^ 
were  about  to  dine.     It  was  Mary  Carson's  passing-bell. 

Ere  its  loud  clang  ceased,  the  two  girls  emerged  from  the 
cottage,  very  pale  and  sad,  and  the  widow's  daughter  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

CROSSING  SWORDS  WITH  THE  WIDOW. 

The  rain  was  falling  heavily  now,  and  it  was  almost  dart. 
Sybil  was  for  braving  the  storm  and  returning  home,  but 
Gwen's  indignation  at  the  idea  was  superb. 

**  Do  you  think  our  bread  and  salt  are  poisoned  that  you  cafi 
not  share  them?  Do  you  want  to  get  your  death  going  to 
Trevanion  Park  in  this  down-pour?  l^onsense!  We'll  be 
enough  like  drowned  rats  before  we  reach  the  house,  as  it  is; 
but  Finette  will  have  sent  an  evening-dress  over  long  ago. 
None  of  mine  are  black;  and  if  they  were,  none  of  them  would 
fityou." 

Sybil  smiled  at  the  thought  of  her  tall,  slender  self  in  one  of 
little  dumpy  Gwen's  violent  pink  dresses. 

**  It  isji't  that,  Gvven;  but  the  truth  is,  I  don't  care  to  meet 
Mrs.  Ingram. '^ 

*'  Mrs.  Ingram  is  my  g  or  emeus, '*^  responded  Miss  Chudleigh, 
with  an  accent  of  hnnic^ir  most  remarkable  to  hear.  "  She 
will  hardly  dare  interfere  with  my  friend!  Nonsensel"  cried 
the  baronet's  daughter,  energetically,  for  the  second  time. 
*^  Don't  be  ridiculous.     Come  along;  I'm  nearly  famished." 

It  was  useless  to  resist.  They  cantered  swiftly  through  the 
fast-falling  rain  up  to  the  house.  The  lightning  leaped  out 
blindingly  as  they  reached  it,  and  the  thunder  crashed  tre- 
xnendouslv  overhead. 

**Lor'I"  paid  Miss  Chudleigh,  scurrying  into  Ihe  portico, 
with  uplifted  skirts;  "didn't  I  tell  you,  Sybil,  fhe  avenging 
elements  were  going  to  make  a  night  of  it?  I  hope  you're 
■torm-bound  for  a  week.  Let's  huri7  and  dress,  or  the  soup 
and  fish  will  be  colder  than  charity." 

A  groom  led  oGt  the  horses,  and  Miss  Chudleigh  led  off  Miss 
TfOTaaion^  perforce,  to  her  dressing-room*    Mus  Chnctleigb's 


WHO  wnraf 


lU 


maid'^^  buxom  little  EngliRh  damsel,  with  cheeks  as  peony* 
haed  as  her  mistress's,  and  in  figure  very  much  the  ramo 
Dutch  build — assisted  the  young  ladies  over  their  lapid  toiletst 
Sybil's  plain  black  silk,  with  its  crape  trimmijigp,  was  speedily 
donned,  and  a  cluster  of  white  rosebuds,  which  Gwen  fastened 
in  her  hair,  her  sole  ornament.  For  Miss  Chudleigh  herself, 
she  was  resplendent  in  sky-blue  silk,  with  a  pearl  band  clasp- 
ing back  the  curly,  red-brown  hair,  and  pearls  dangling  from 
her  pink  ears  and  encircling  her  plump  throat.  As  to  her  chub- 
by hands,  they  at  all  times  blazed  like  twin  suns  with  costly 
jewels. 

"  I  know  the  soup  will  be  cold!"  she  said,  plaintively,  as 
they  descended,  "and  the  salmon  cutlets  spoiledl  What  an 
eternity  it  ii:  since  yoti  dined  at  Chudleigh  before.  Miss  Tre- 
vanion!" 

She  opened  the  dining-room  door  and  entered  with  her 

friend.     There  was  Sir  Rupert,  very  imposing  in  evening- 

•  dress;    there  was  Mrs.   Ingram,  in  amber  tissue  and  opals^ 

beautiful  and  resplendent;  and  there  were  Messrs.  Macgregor 

and  Trevanion,  and  Colonel  Gaunt,  C.B.,  of  the  Rifle  Brigade. 

'*  My  dear  Miss  Trevanion!"  S'  Rupert  exclaimed,  rising 
to  greet  his  guest;  "  this  is  an  unexpected  pleasure.  I  began 
to  think  you  had  altogether  forgotten  us.  Allow  mo  to  pre- 
sent my  friend.  Colonel  Gaunt,  of  the  — th  Rifles'.  My 
other  guests,"  with  a  laugh,  '*  1  believe  you  are  already  ao- 
quaintcd  with.  Hillman,"  to  the  butler,  *'  seats  and  iresh 
covers.  You  bring  your  friend  unfortunately  late,  Gweudo- 
Ime." 

**  Couldn't  help  it,  papa.  We've  been  playing  the  yart  of 
guardian  angels  this  afternoon.  Hillman,  this  soup  is  like 
lemonade.     Fetch  us  some  hot." 

Mrs.  Ingram  smiled  her  brightest,  and  bowed  her  grace- 
fulest  across  the  table.     Miss  Trevanion  returned  it  frigidly.  ^ 
Her  cousin  she  did  Jiot  notice  at  all.     But,  as  that  gentleman' 
Aad  not;  uttered  five  words  since  dinner  began,  nobody  ob- 
served ins  silence  now. 

**  Were  you  caught  in  the  storm,  dear  Miss  Trevanion?''  the 
widow  asked,  sweetly.  "  You  must  have  been,  if  you  only 
came  from  the  Park  now.  What  terrible  lightning,  and  I  am 
•0  afraid  of  lightning!"  with  a  charming  shudder  that  brought 
the  white  shoulders  into  play.  '*  And  how  is  dear  Lady 
Lemox?" 

**  My  mother  is  as  well  as  usual,"  Sybil  answered,  very  cold- 
ly, and  not  lif tbig  her  eyes  from  her  plate.  But  the  bright 
lUtie  widow  WW  not  to  be  daunted. 


IH 


WHO  wnrsf 


*'  She  promised  to  come  and  see  me,  but  she  has  forgotten, 
I  fear.  Good  heavei^s!  what  fearful  lightning — what  an  awful 
storm.  Dear  Mies  Trevauion,  how  strong-minded  you  must 
be  to  venture  forth  in  such  a  tempest." 

**  A  Trevanion  never  knows  tear,  eh,  Sybil?"  Sir  Rupert 
said.  **' Forth,  and  Fear  Not!'  is  the  motto  of  the  house, 
Mrs.  Ingram.  The  Trevanions  have  been  heroes  and  warriors 
since  the  da3'8  of  the  Conquest." 

Gwendoline  looked  suddenly  up  from  her  salmon  cutlets  at 
Cyril  Trevanion,  then  at  Macgregor.  The  episode  of  the  bull- 
fight and  the  hero's  retreat  rose  vividly  before  her.  As  she 
met  Macgrcgor's  mischievous  dark  eyes,  she  broise  out  hito  a 
fit  of  inextinguishable  laughter  that  made  the  room  ring.  Sir 
Rupert  and  Colonel  Gaunt  stared  in  amaze;  Cyril  Trevanion 
turned  dark  red,  then  livid;  and  Macgregor  and  Sybil  smiled 
iuvolinitarily. 

"  (hirvdoli'ne  !^'  her  father  cried  iu  a  voice  of  awful  re- 
proof, **  what  do  you  mean?*' 

'*  Nothing,  papa,"  Miss  Chudleigh  responded,  choking  be- 
tween laughter  and  salmon.  "I  beg  your  pardon — 1  beg 
everybo(/7j'\s  pardon;  but — " 

Here,  overcome  for  the  second  time,  Gwen  had  a  relapse 
more  violent  than  her  first  attack. 

*'  Miss  Chudleigh,'*'  said  Sir  Rupert,  sternly,  "  I  shall  order 
you  from  tiia  room.  W/iut  is  the  cause  of  this  untimely 
mirth?" 

**  Miss  Chudleigh  is  subject  to  these  attacks,"  interposed 
Macffregor,  his  dark  eyes  laughing  wickedly.  '*  Pray  don't 
mind  her.  I've  known  her  to  explode,  upon  the  smallest  prov- 
ocation, in  a  more  alarming  manner  even  than  this.  Just 
allow  her  to  laugh  unnoticed,  and  she  will  come  round  all 
right  presently." 

The  explanation,  and  hor  father's  face  of  perplexity  and 
disgust  very  nearly  overcome  poor  Gwen  for  the  third  time- 
But  by  a  superhuman  effort,  that  left  her  gasping  and  crimson 
in  the  face,  she  restrained  the  demonstration,  and  finished  her 
dinner.  But  even  Mrs.  Ingram  and  Sybil  had  to  smile  at  the 
internal  shakings  and  squeaks  of  suppressed  mirth  that  every 
now  and  then  convulsed  tlie  baronet's  daughter. 

The  happy  time  of  release  came  at  last.  The  i&dies  loae 
and  adjourned  to  the  drawing-rocm. 

'*  Don't  rupture  an  arterv,  if  you  can  help  it,"  whispered 
Macgregor,  in  parting;  and  before  the  door  was  well  closed, 
Gwendoline's  repressed  feelings  broks  out  iu  perfect  shouts  at 
merriment 


"WHO  wnw? 


W 


rose 


•'  Wasn't  It  exquisite?"  she  cried  to  Sybil,  with  tears  in  her 
gyes.  **  Bid  you  ever  hear  so  delicious  a  joke?  Pppa*8  pom* 
pons  boast,  Colonel  Trevanion's  face,  and  the  memory  of  his 
race  for  lifel    Oh,  I  shall  diel" 

Miss  Chudleigh  had  hardly  wipd  her  eyes  and  recovered  her 
composure  wheu  the  gentlemen  joined  them. 

Mrs.  Ingram  rose  from  the  piauo,  where  she  wac  singing, 
and  fluttered  up  to  the  new-comers,  i*3  a  butterfly  to  a  cluster 
of  roses.  And  presently  she  and  the  baronet  were  partners, 
and  a  card-table  was  wheeled  out,  with  Macgregor  and  Colonel 
Gaunt  for  the  opposition. 

Colonel  Trevanion  watched  the  game  over  the  widow's 
shoulder,  and  ever  and  anon  dark  and  deadly  glances  shot 
from  his  eyes  at  his  tenant's  serene  face. 

Once  or  twice  Macgregor  met  thoEC  baleful  looks  with 
bright,  defiant  return.  With  half  an  eye  you  could  see  that 
bitter  hate  was  here. 

*'  How  the  widow  and  her  adorer  do  hate  him,  to  be  sure!** 
Gwendoline  said.  "  They're  in  league  to  defeat  him,  I  know; 
but  1 11  lay  my  diamond  ring  against  your  rosebuds,  Sybil, 
that  he  beats  them  both.'* 

She  danced  over  to  the  piano,  rattled  ofif  a  spirited  prelude, 
and  sung  in  the  most  ringing,  if  not  the  sweetest  of  voices, 
Scott's  war-like  ballad,  "  The  Macgregors'  Gathering." 

*' '  The  moon's  on  tlie  lake,  nnd  the  mist's  on  the  brae, 
And  the  chin  has  a  name  that  is  nameless  by  day; 
Our  signal  for  tight,  wliich  from  monarchs  we  drew, 
Must  1)6  heard  but  l)y  night,  in  our  vengeful  halloo. 

Then  halloo!  ballool  hnllool  Gregjiliich! 
If  they  rob  us  of  name  and  pursue  us  with  beagles, 
Give  their  roofs  to  the  flanu'S,  nnd  their  tlesh  to  the  engles; 
"While  there's  leaves  in  the  forest  and  foam  on  tlie  river, 
Macgregor.  despite  them,  shall  flouiish  foieverl*  " 

Colonel  Gaunt  looked  up  with  a  laugh. 

**  Do  you  hear  that,  Macgregor?  By  Jove!  that  rings  oui; 
as  martial  as  a  bugle  blast!'* 

"  I  mark  the  King,"  was  Macgregor's  response,  his  face 
moving  no  more  than  the  marble  Agamemnon  in  the  corner. 

But  he  met  Mrs.  Ingram's  eyes  full,  with  a  strong,  steady 
glance  that  made  those  velvet  orbs  drop. 

And  Gwendoline  sung  on,  while  the  sensitive  color  flushed 
into  Sybil's  pale  cheeks  at  the  words  and  the  stirring  air: 

•'  •  Glcnarcliy's  proud  mountains,  Cnlrhnm  and  her  towers, 
Glcnstrae  and  Gh  nlynn  no  Inntier  are  ours; 
We  are  landless,  landless,  landiess,  Gregalach! 
TJuougU  tUe  depths  of  .  ocU  Katrint  th«  stetd  ibsll  eaxMr, 


i 


WHO  wikbF 

0*er  the  peak  of  Ben  Lomond  the  galley  ahall  st«9n 
And  the  rocks  of  Crnig  lloysten.  like  icicles  melt, 
Ere  our  wrongs  be  firgot,  or  f  wr  vengeance  uofeltl 
If  they  rob  us  of  name  nnd  pursue  us  with  bengles. 
Give  tlieir  rnofa  to  Ihu  flame'*,  nnd  llieir  tlush  fo  the  tagles) 
Wliile  theie>  leaves  in  tiie  fmcst  and  fnnm  on  tlie  river, 
Margiegor,  despite  lUem,  shall  Ilouribh  forever!'  " 

**  The  game  is  ours!"  paid  the  deep  voice  of  Macgregor,  •: 
OwendolJDO  finished,  and  whirled  round  on  her  stool.  "  Thanks, 
Miss  Chiidleigh!  I  owe  you  especial  gratitude  for  that  song. 
Of  course,  you  sung  it  for  me  alone?'* 

**  Of  course,"  said  Gwendoline,  coming  over;  "  and  you 
have  won,  too.  Uow  nice!  It  brings  my  prediction  trua  at 
once.     *  Maogregor,  despite  them,  shall  flourish  forever!'  ' 

She  looked  defiantly  at  the  widow  and  the  dour  dark  gen- 
tleman frowning  over  her  shoulder. 

**  No  fairer  Saul  could  be  among  the  prophets,"  Mr.  Mac- 
Ifregor  said,  gallantly,  as  the  card-party  dispersed;  "and  I 
never  heard  you  sing  so  well  before." 

**  Her  heart  was  in  the  theme,"  broke  in  the  widow,  with  a 
gay  little  laugh.  "Gwendoline  has  been  practicing  that  de- 
Egntful  song,  with  an  assiduity  that  was  cruel,  for  the  past 
week.  I  couldn't  understand  it  before — I  do  now.  Thank 
Heaven  I"  with  a  coquettish  shrug,  "we  shall  have  a  respite 
for  the  future." 

"  You  will  favor  us  with  some  mitsic,  Mrs.  Ingram?"  in- 
einuated  Colonel  Gaunt.  *'  Half  of  '  Ours '  are  firm  believeri 
in  sirens  and  mermaids,  and  their  fatal  power,  ever  since  they 
have  heard  you  sing." 

Mrs.  Ingram  courtesied  delightfully,  and  moved  away  to 
the  piano,  her  amber  drapery  trailing,  her  opals  gleaming  in 
the  wax -lights.  She  glanced  over  her  shoulder,  with  a  mean- 
ing smile,  to  Macgregor,  as  she  sw^am  away. 

**  You  always  turn  in  the  right  place,  Mr.  Macgregor,"  she 
Sftid.     "  Pray  come  and  turn  my  music." 

He  looked  surprised,  but  obeyed  at  once,  his  face  very 
jprave.  The  piano,  as  usual,  was  in  a  remote  corner  of  the 
long  drawing-room,  ever  so  far  removed  from  the  rest  of  th« 
Apartment. 

**You  play  from  memory,  don't  you,  Mrs.  Ingram?"  he 
faid,  sarcastically;  "and  I  will  turn  your  music.  I  suppose 
*  Macgregors'  Gathering  '  will  do  to  turn  as  well  as  anything 
•Ise,  while  you  sing  your  Italian  songs  for  the  gallant  colonel?" 

**  Don't  be  sarcastic,  Mr.  Macgregor.  I  want  to  talk  to 
yovL    Whare  is  that  pictui'e  vou  were  to  show  m%?** 


WHO    WKflf 


160 


m« 


St 


ehe 


gh0  was  playing  brilliantly  while  aha  spoke,  the  long,  ttlTit 

eyes  lifted  up  to  his  face. 
''Iw>4  to  show  you  no  picture  that  I  am  aware  o^  m^ 

dame." 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean— the  *  Rose  Full  of  Thornt* 
—that  improner  dead  person  who  was  impertinent  enough  to 
look  like  me.'^ 

"  She  did  more  than  look  like  you/'  with  a  ^fm  smile. 
"  It  was  you,  madame.  Not  Mrs.  Ingram,  but  Mietress  Rose 
Da\\'son — late  the  favorite  of  the  ballet — the  charming  little 
soubrette  of  the  Princess's  Theater." 

"  You  are  insolent,  sir!    I  don't  know  what  you  mean.'* 

**  No?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  ostrich,  Mrs.  Ingram, 
which  hides  its  head  in  the  sand,  and  thinks  its  big  hoay  un- 
seen? You  remind  me  of  that  foolish  bird.  You  dye  your 
pretty  amber  tresses  blank,  and  fancy  yourself  unreco^nize'  le. 
You  are  an  uncommonly  clever  woman,  my  little  Kose;  but 
not  60  clever,  after  all,  as  you  think  yourself.  In  spite  of  the 
hair-dye  and  the  pretty  new  name,  I  knew  you  at  once,  Mrs. 
Dawson." 

"  Not  that  name!"  she  cried,  passionatelv.  **  If  you  do 
know  me,"  with  sudden,  insolent  defiance,  "you  know  that 
my  name  is  not  Dawson,  but — " 

**  Trevanionl"  Macgregor  said,  with  a  laugh;  "and  your 
husband  sits  yonder,  and  doesn't  recognize  you.  Yes,  I  know 
all  about  it,  and  your  name  is  as  much  Trevanion  as  he  is  your 
husband." 

"  AVho  are  jou?"  the  woman  said,  intense  curiosity  getting 
the  bettor  of  every  other  feeling.  "  Who  has  been  telling  you 
— ^fooling  you — making  you  believe  all  this?" 

"It  /.s'^folly,  isn't  it?"  the  author  retorted,  sardonically. 
"  You  never  heard  of  Joe  Dawson,  or  the  murder  done  m 
Leamington  Wood?  You  never  were  Mademoiselle  Rose 
Adair?  You  never  befooled  Cyril  Trevanion — not  the  sulky, 
white-livered  hound  scowling  over  yonder,  but  the  real  bond" 
fide  Cyril  Trevanion,  lying  now  at  the  bottom  of  the  Pacifia 
Unhappily,  I  have  proofs  that  will  stagger  your  warmest  ad- 
mirers, Mrs.  Ingram.  Suppose  I  send  for  Captain  Hawksley 
— he's  an  old  friend  of  mine — and  ask  him  what  he  knows 
about  you?  Or  Major  Powerscourt,  with  whom  you  crossed 
swords'so  cleverly,  sixteen  years  ago,  ai;  Brighton?" 

It  did  not  often  happen  to  the  self-possessed  widow  to 
change  color,  but  the  chalky  pallor  that  had  oversj)read  her 
l*ce  Oil  the  terrace,  when  promising  Colonel  Trevanion  to  re* 
Teal  the  secret  of  Monkswood,  showed  ghastly  again  under  her 


iro 


WHO  wrsnif 


rouge.  But  the  fleet  Pngers  still  flew  over  the  keys,  although 
the  black  eyer  'ook'^"'  ip  in  the  man's  face,  wild  with  hidden 
terror — this  mr     '^      was  her  master. 

**  You  can  pr*.  ■  '^^  'l  ing,"  she  said,  daringly  defiant  to  thd 
last.  "Don't  th.,.i£  to  '  '^htenme.  Captain  Uawksley  has 
gone  with  his  regiment  to  ihdia.  Major  Povverscourt — bah!  I 
urn  not  afraid  of  /dm.  I  may  resemble  this  very  improper  Rose 
Dawson  of  whom  you  speak;  but  we  see  accidental  resem- 
blunces  every  day.  I  !:tm  Mrs.  Ingram,  relict  of  Captain  In- 
gram, of  the  mercViant  service,  and  a  model  of  prudence  and 
propriety — an  exemplary  instructress  of  youth.  Like  Lady 
Macbeth,  I  have  risked  all  on  the  chance  of  the  die,  and  am 
willing  to  abide  the  issue  of  the  throw.  Don't  think  to  frighten 
me,  Mr.  Angus  Maegrogor.  I  defy  you  and  La  Princesse 
both.  If  the  time  ever  comes  when  I  nniyt  go,  I  will  go. 
Meantime,  I  am  very  comfortable  here,  and  I  mean  to  stay." 

And  then  this  defiant  little  mouse  looked  insolently  up  into, 
the  eyes  of  the  baffled  lion,  her  daring  smile  at  its  brightest. 

**  I  have  never  harmed  yott,"  she  said,  gayly.  "  I  don't  see 
what  pleasure  you  take  in  trying  to  hunt  down  one  poor  little 
harmless  v/oman.  Whatever  my  past  may  have  been,  I  am 
doing  no  one  any  harm  now.  It's  very  dull  and  unutterably 
prosy  to  be  virtuous,  and  have  no  more  cakes  and  ale.  But, 
then,  it's  respectable;  and,  as  the  prospective  lady  of  a  fine  old 
English  gentleman,  I  am  a  great  stickler  for  respectability.  Let 
lue  alone,  Mr.  Macgregor.  It  does  not  become  a  stag  to  deal 
death  to  a  poor  little  fluttering  fawn.  Remember,  I  never 
h&rmed  you." 

The  Emiie  was  on  hor  lip  still,  but  the  great  dark  eyes  looked 
up  at  him  full  of  piteous  ajipeal.     She  admired  this  Angus 
Macgregor — :s[,rong,  brave,  commanding — and    fhe    admired 
^  him  all  Ihe  more  that  she  was  intensely  afraid  of  him. 

That  luminoas  glance,  that  tender  smile,  might  have  soft- 
ened the  stony  heart  of  the  bronze  Jupiter  near  them;  but  th© 
stern  face  of  Angus  Macgregor  never  relaxed. 

"  You  talk,  and  talk,  and  talk,  Mrs.  Ingram,'*  he  said; 
**  and  you  know  your  talk  is  all  empty  words.  You  are  in  my 
power — utteily  and  entirely.  The  mercy  you  showed  Cyril 
Tievanion  1  will  show  yon.  As  yc  \  meted  out,  by  HeavenI 
it  f^hall  bo  measured  to  you  in  return.  How  dared  you  ever 
come  here  I  How  dare  you  cat;  at  the  same  table,  sleep  under 
the  same  roof  with  those  two  spotless  girls — ycu,  Rose  Adair! 
One  chance  I  ofTer  you,  and  one  alone.  Leave  this  place  with- 
in the  tveek,  and  never  return.    I  will  not  pureue  you— xu^^ 


wxo  injn? 


m 


I  will  gfve  yon  money  for  the  journey.  Leave  England,  and 
never  retum,  and  you  ehall  be  spared  I'* 

Mr8.  Ingram  laughed  outright — laughed  scornfully. 

**  Thanks,  my  frseud;  but  if  that  is  your  mercy,  k'eep  ifc.  1 
will  battle  to  the  last — I  will  never  go.  The  worst  that  can 
befall  me  here  is  not  half  so  bad  as  the  vagabond  life  to  which 
you  would  condemn  me.  1  know  what  it  means  to  wander,  a 
homeless  wretch,  through  French  cities  and  Gc  an  Spas, 
herding  with  the  outcasts  of  every  nation,  ganibli!)^,-  i  Baden 
and  Horaburg  with  the  most  abandoned  of  both  3ex;  No, 
Mr.  Macgregor,  I  will  not  go." 

*'  Then  you  will  stay  to  be  denounced  as  the  i^irderesa  of 
Joe  Dawson — nay,  as  a  double  murderess;  for  yoii,  know  the 
fate  of  General  Trcvanion." 

Again  the  pretty  widow  laughed  disdainfully. 

**  Oh,  Miss  Trevanion  has  been  telling  you  that  little  ro- 
mance, has  she?  And  you  believe  black  is  white  when  Mies 
Trevanion  says  so,  don't  you?  The  wisest  and  greatest  of  you 
men  are  all  alike,  idiots — in  the  hands  of  one  woman.  What 
does  La  Princesse  think  I  have  done?  Poisoned  his  night- 
draught  and  carried  the  body  in  my  arms  to  the  sea,  and  so 
made  away  with  it?  Or  am  I  like  those  wonderful  sensation 
heroines  we  read  of  nowadays,  queen  of  a  romantic  band  of 
robbers,  gentlemanly  cut-throats,  who  come  at  my  beck  and 
call,  and  do  my  bidding?  Bah!  I  tell  you  I  never  laid  a  finger 
on  General  Trevanion,  except  to  do  him  kindness,  and  La 
Princesse  is  a  fool  for  once  in  her  life.  What  was  General 
Trevanion  or  his  will  to  me?'* 

**  You  fight  well,  Mrs.  Ingram,"  said  Macgregor,  gravely, 
turning  to  leave  her;  "you  thrust  and  parry  Mith  wonderful 
skill,  but  the  victory  will  be  mine  still.  Look  for  no  mercy 
from  me  after  to-night.  Fifteen  years  ago  Major  Powerscourt 
spared  you — 1  know  you  better — my  motto  shall  be,  '  Slay, 
and  spare  not. '  " 

fcihe  still  looked  up  and  smiled  in  his  face. 

*'  Thanks  for  the  warning,  at  least;  it  looks  an  unequal  con- 
test, but  I  will  die  with  my  sword  in  my  hand  and  my  face  to 
the  foe.  War  is  declared  and  the  battle  begun;  we  will  see 
who  wins." 

She  began  to  sing  bravely  and  brilliantly,  and  she  sung 
many  songs.  Colonel  Gaunt,  fascinated,  left  his  place  and 
came  and  stood  beside  her,  and  Sir  Kupert  lay  back  in  his 
chair  and  listened  with  drea/ny,  lirJf-closed  ej^es.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  know  this  bewitchiiig  little  songstress  was  his 
property.    "    was  not  jealous  of  Colonel  Gaunt — ha  knew  th» 


in 


wxo  wnrsf 


widow  wantecl  to  marry  him,  and  he  smiled  complaceatlj  of 
lata  over  the  idea. 

**  If  I  don't  :?iarry  her,"  the  baronet  mused,  "  some  other 
fellow  will — Gaunt  himself,  or  Tievauion,  or  Hemsgate — and 
what  an  abomination  of  desolation  ray  lifo  will  be  then.  Her 
anttcedentR  are  rather  mvstei-.ous,  but  the  story  she  tells  of 
herself  mny  be  true,  and  where  ignorance  is  bliss,  etc.  I  kno?^ 
that  this  house  without  her  would  bo  a  waste  and  howling 
wildeniess.     I  might  oo  worse  than  marry  the  widow." 

He  watched  her,  thinking  sucli  thoughts  as  these,  until  she 
rose  from  the  piano  at  last,  glided  smilingly  away  from  her 
military  admirer,  and  over  to  where  Cyril  Trevanion  sat,  silent 
and  glum,  in  a  corner  by  himself,  turning  over  a  book  of 
prints. 

**  At  last,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth,  "  you  condescend  to 
notice  me.  Egad!  it  is  encouraging  the  attention  I  find  paid 
me  here."' 

•*  It  is  all  your  own  fault,  yon  great  sullen  mastiff,"  the 
little  widow  retorted,  sharply.  '"  You  sit  li'ce  a  deaih's-head 
a^  tne  feast — black  and  dismal.  1  must  have  some  policy,  if 
you  have  none. " 

**  ij'iirting  with  Macgregor  and  Gaunt  is  your  policy,  is  it 
not?  But  I  will  not  endure  it.  Are  you  going  to  help  mo 
find  that  will?" 

**  For  pity's  sake,  hush  I  Are  yon  mad?  Of  course  I  am. 
Sir  Rupert  goes  to  London  in  three  days  from  this,  to  be  ab- 
sent over  a  week.  When  the  cat's  away — yon  know  the  proT- 
erb.  Tms  is  Thursday  night;  on  Monday  night  meet  me  at 
the  entrance  of  the  deer-park,  and  you  shall  know  all." 

"  Three  days  to  wait,"  grumbled  Trevanion,  '*  when  every 
hour  is  an  eternitv." 

**  You  idiot!  You  must  wait.  J?othing  is  ever  done,  well 
done,  in  haste.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  Arabic  maxim  which 
Charley  Lemox  has  taken  for  his  seal  ?  *  Agitel  lil  Shaitan  * 
— ~*  Hurry  is  the  Devil's.'  " 

She  glided  away  with  the  words.  Colonel  Gaunt  and  Mr. 
Macgregor  were  bidding  their  host  good-night.  Looking  at^ 
the  tenant  of  the  Retreat  before  she  flitted  away  np  the  mar- 
ble stair,  she  kissed  Miss  Chudleigh  and  Miss  Trevanion  a 
jushine  good-night.  She  was  humming  gayly  to  herself  the 
lag  end  of  a  French  ballad,  as  she  floated  from  eight,  still 
looking  at  Macgregor: 

•• «  To  dny  tor  me. 
To-morrow  for  tbec; 
But  will  tliat  ta>«orrow  svsr  iMf '^ 


m 


CHAPTER  X3ni. 

uaogeeoor's   valet. 

"Great  oaks  from  little  acorns  grow."  Yon  remember 
that  story  Thackeray  tells  in  his  "  Vain'ty  Fair,'*  of  the  man 
who  went  about  with  a  poclcetful  of  acorns,  and  whenever  ho 
came  to  a  vacant  inch  of  ground,  popped  one  in.  What  tre- 
mendous big  timber  his  successors  »nust  have  had  from  ^ 
those  little  acorns!  This  principle  runs  through  life — the  des- 
tinies of  nations  hang  sometimes  on  an  undigested  dinner;  a 
kingdom  is  lost  and  won  by  a  surfeit  of  lampreys,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  bereaved  Uenry,  or  by  the  sudden  plungo  of  a 
horse.  Mr.  Macgregor'^  valet  may  seem  to  have  little  to  do 
with  this  veracious  history,  but  Mr.  Macgregor's  valet  was  the 
direct  means  of  bringing  about  a  rapid  dcnouoncnL 

Monsieur  Frangois,  of  course,  was  a  Parisian,  and  an  incon- 
gruous element  in  that  meager  bachelor  melange.  But  then 
the  tenant  of  the  Retreat  had  many  such  incongruities.  H» 
wore  shabby  coats,  and  was  a  penny-a-liner  by  profession;  and 
he  possessed  snuff-boxes  blazing  with  jewels,  mto  which  the 
white  fingers  of  Louis,  the  WelI-i3eloved,  had  dipped.  He  had 
a  ruby-studded  fan  that  had  once  hung  from  the  slunder  waist 
of  Marie  Antoinette,  and  rare  old  Sevres  that  Du  Barri  had 
once  called  her  own.  He  worked  hard,  and  lived  meagerly; 
but  he  owned  lovely  little  cabinet  pictures,  for  which  he  might 
safely  have  claimed  their  weight  in  gold,  and  his  bric-a-brac  col- 
lection would  have  made  glisten  the  eyes  of  the  connoisseurs 
of  Wardour  Street. 

And  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor  had  picked  up  Monsieur  Fran- 
(jois  in  Paris,  returning  from  Suabia,  at  the  "  sell  up"  of  a 
great  duke,  whose  valet  he  had  been.  He  had  brought  him 
direct  from  the  most  delightful  of  earthly  cities,  and  Sie  very 
best  society,  to  bury  him  alive  in  Monkswood  Waste,  it  was 
cruel.  The  salary  was  high  enough  to  make  the  accomplished 
Frenchman  endure  his  li*?ing  death  for  awhile,  but.  nature  re- 
volted at  last,  and  Monsieur  Franyois  gave  Mr.  Macgregor 
notice. 

**  For  monsieur  I  would  do  all  my  possible,*'  said  this  gen- 
tleman, with  calm  dignity;  '*  but  to  bury  alive  here — to  exist 
sans  society — to  see  no  one  but  the  trees  and  the  cows  all  the 
months — no  1  I  depart  at  the  earliest,  and  monsieur  will  bun* 
•elf  supply  with  anothsr. '' 


m 


WHO   iriJXB  ? 


Charley  Lemox,  dropping  in  during  the  day,  the  artist  naN 
rated  this  little  contretemps. 

"  *  'Twos  ever  thus  from  childhood's  hour,*  "  he  said,  pa* 
thetically;  *^  the  principle  of  the  immortal  gazelle  appuea 
equally  to  mortal  valots.     Fraugoia  toys  he  is    desolated  *  at 

f'oing,  and  I  know  I  am.  Where  shall  I  supuly  his  place? 
le  was  a  treasure,  Charley — a  Titian  gem.  His  coffee  was 
worthy  the  Trois  Frc'res,  his  omelettes  sovfflees  boat  ihe  Caf6 
TAnglais  to  sticks,  and  ho  was  swift,  silent,  obedient  and  re- 
spectful— invaluable  qualities  in  a  man's  dog,  valet  or  wife. 
He  was  Soyer's  equal  at  his  best,  and  ho  leaves  me  helpless  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  Mrs.  Hurst.  She  *  does '  for  me  now, 
she  says,  and — Heaven  pity  mel — she'll  *do'  for  mo  with  a 
vengeance,  if  I  have  to  devour  the  messes  she  concocts. 
Francois  has  left  word  at  the  Speckhaven  inns  to  send  along 
something  to  supply  his  place,  but  I  know  I'll  never  agam  see 
his  equal." 

That  very  evcnino:,  as  the  artist  stood  before  his  easel,  paint- 
ing and  smoking,  Mrs.  Hurst  entered,  bobbing  a  courtesy,  to 
inform  him  Ihat  a  young  man  had  been  sent  from  the  Silver 
Swan  to  fill  the  vacant  ofiice. 

"  Let's  sec  him,"  said  Macgrcgor,  without  turning  his  head 
or  ceasing  his  work;  **  send  him  in,  Mrs.  H." 

He  threw  aside  his  brush  as  the  old  woman  left — it  was  rap- 
idly getting  dark.  A  crimson  August  sunset  was  blazing  itself 
out  in  (he  west,  and  fiery  lances  of  light  shot  athwart  the  huge 
boles  of  the  ti-ees,  glancing  redly  amid  the  yellow-green  waves 
of  fern,  and  glimmering  on  the  still  black  pools  in  the  under- 
growth. The  Mghtingaies  were  chanting  their  phjintivo  vesper 
lay,  and  far  and  faint  came  the  flutter  of  the  sea-wind,  and 
the  dull  wash  of  the  waves  on  the  shore.  Sitting  clown  in  the 
deep  embrasure  of  the  low  window,  among  the  scarlet  roses 
and  sweut-biier,  puffing  away'vigorously  at  his  cheroot,  artist 
(and  author  looked  over  the  fair  English  landscape  with  dreamy, 
cdmirjng  eyes. 

The  door  opened  and  the  applicant  came  in.  Macgregor 
glancc'l  ii\dilTerentIy,  and  saw  a  snock-headed  lad  shuffling  un- 
easily in  his  presence — an  overgrown  boy  of  eighteen  or  nine- 
teen. 

*' They  sent  you  hers  from  the  Silver  Swan,  did  they?'* 
fiaid  Macgiegor.  "  You  haven't  much  !he  look  of  a  valet,  I 
must  say.  Where  did  you  come  from?  Who  did  yott  lire 
with  last?" 

*'  I  coom  from  Lunuon^  &iis**  the  lad  answered,  respect* 


WHO  WUB  t 


m 


(1 


folly  toQchinff  his  forelock.    "  I  was  helper  in  A  stabfe  ihBn, 
But  Maister  Linden  thought  I  might  do  you,  for  awhil&" 

*'HumphI  Mttister  Linden's  mistaken.  0;id  incapable  Ii 
enough.  Tm  afraid  youMl  have  to  eo  back  to  the  stablei. 
You  were  never  a  gentleman's  servant  oef ore?" 

**  I  cun  blacken  boots  and  brush  a  coat  wi'  t'  best/'  said 
the  rustic,  sturdily.  **  1  .n  out  o'  place,  and  very  willin*  to 
larn.  Won't  your  honor  give  a  poor  lad  a  chance?  Tee  been 
ailing,  and  out  o'  place  for  moonths." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Macgregor,  for  the  second  time.  '*  1 
shall  require  ratner  more  tlmu  my  boots  blacked  and  my  coat 
brushed.     I  don't  think  you'll  do.     What's  your  name?" 

"Joe  Dawson,  sir." 

The  author  had  been  lounging  lazily  back  in  the  window- 
seat,  putting  forth  clouds  of  smoke,  and  indolently  gazing  ab 
the  red  light  in  the  sky.  But  at  the  sound  of  this  very  com- 
monplace name  of  Joe  Dawson,  ho  suddenly  wheeled  round, 
and  for  the  first  time  looked  the  applicant  for  the  vacant  valet- 
ship  full  in  the  face. 

It  was  a  remarkable  face  for  a  slouching  rustic — remarkable 
for  its  correctness  of  feature  and  its  hiu)itual  sullen,  down- 
cast look.  In  any  one  else  it  would  have  been  handsome,  bat 
in  this  lad  its  expression  was  that  of  one  cowed,  and  brow- 
beaten, and  ill-treated  fiom  childhood.  Ho  had  a  shock  of 
thick,  curling  yellow  hair,  and  a  pair  of  long,  velvet  black 
eyes,  when  you  could  get  to  see  them,  most  remarkably  like 
another  pair  of  velvety  black  orbs  you  wot  of. 

Macg  ^gor  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  starod  at  h'm. 

"  By  Jove!"  he  said,,  under  his  breath,  *  here's  a  go. 
Come  here,  Joe  Dawson,  and  let  me  see  you." 

The  lad  slouched  over,  very  evidently  ill  at  ease.  He  lifted 
his  black  eyes  uneasilv,  and  dropped  them  again  under  that 
merciless  stare.  Khuffling  from  one  foot  to  Uie  other,  shjiiing 
his  cap  from  one  hot  hand  to  the  next,  he  waited  to  hear  his 
Dentonce. 

**  You're  out  of  place  and  out  of  pocket,  Joe,"  Macgregor 
said,  coolly,  surveying  the  ragged  garments  of  the  lad. 
**  You've  been  sick,  you  say.     Where?    In  London?'* 

**  No,  sir;  in  the  town  yonder,  I  tramped  it  from  Lunnoa 
o*  foot,  and  was  took  down  wi'  a  fever  in  Speckhaven.  My 
bit  o'  money  went  for  t'  victuals  and  medicine,  and  I  do  *ope, 
sir,"  lifting  the  dark  eyes  earnestly,  "  you'll  take  me  on.  Vi\ 
do  my  best — I  will." 

"  I  dare  say;  you  look  an  honest  lad,"  Macgregor  replied, 
graciously.    "  And  what  brought  you  to  Speclmaven,  Joe?*' 


I 


m 


WHO   WTNSf 


Mr.  Joe  Dawson  shuffled  more  uneasily  than  ever,  and  hii 
cadaverous  face  Hushed. 

"  Well,  sir,  1  Iieerd  as  'ow  a  party  I  was  in  search  of  wai 
seen  *cre,  or  a  party  huncommon  like  her,  and  I  set  hoat  in 
*<>pe  to  'uut  her  up.'* 

**  Ohol  a  sweetheart,  I  take  it?" 

" No,  sir,"  Joe  said,  hastil}',  and  turning  redder;  "no,  sir, 
no  Bweel  heart.  It  was  " — a  gulp  and  a  pause — "  it  was  my 
mother.'* 

*•  Your  mother  !  So  the  old  lady  has  run  away  from  j'ou, 
Joe?" 

**  She  isn't  a  hold  lady/'  retorted  Joe,  with  some  spirit. 
"  She's  a  yotoig  lady,  and  a  huncommon  'andsome  'un.  Look 
'ere,  hif  you  please;  I'se  get  her  picLer." 

He  drew  eagerly  forth,  in  confirmation  of  his  words,  a  little 
miniature  in  a  black  velvet  case. 

Macg'Tgor  took  it,  and  as  ho  opened  it,  a  long,  silky  curl  of 
yellow  hair  dropped  out  and  twined  about  his  fingers.  It  was 
a  very  pretty  tress,  silky  and  soft,  but  the  gentlemau  dropped 
it  as  thongh  it  had  been  a  viper. 

"  Faugh!"  he  mnttered,  with  an  expression  of  ill-concealed 
disgust;  and  poor  Joe  picked  up  his  cherished  tress,  a  little 
Eurprised  and  hurt. 

Mr.  Macgregor  looked  at  the  picture  an  instant,  then  closed 
it  sharply.  It  was  a  very,  very  pretty  face — bright  and  smil- 
ing and  childishly  sweet — that  looked  up  at  him  with  great 
dark  eyes,  the  very  couute'-parts  of  those  in  the  lad's  face  be- 
fore him. 

"  As  you  say,  your  mother's  unconimonly  good-looking," 
he  said,  coolly,  handing  the  case  back,  "  and  you're  uncom- 
monly like  her,  my  lad,  or  would  be,  if  you  ccnld  but  hold 
your  head  up  and  look  the  world  in  the  face.  How  long  ago 
since  ihia  was  taken?" 

*'  A  matter  o'  nineteen  or  twenty  yjars.  It  was  taken  out 
o*  feyther's  pocket  when  he  was  dead,  and  kept  for  me.*' 

"  Your  father  is  dead,  then?    How  did  he  die?" 

Joe  looked  up,  then  down,  turned  first  red  and  then  pale, 
and  made  no  answer. 

"  Suppose  I  tell  you,  Joe,"  said  Macgregor;  "  the  pretty 
little  woman  in  the  picture  killed  him." 

*'  Sir!"  Joe  gasped,  ! ^.  utter  dismay. 

"  Yes,  Joe,  she  killed  bini,  and  Fbe  deserted  you— the  little 
devill  I  suppose  they  brought  you  np  in  the  work-hom-e,  and 
jroa  graduated  in  the  streets,  and  took  your  degree  from  tbd 


WHO  wnrsf 


177 


a 


gtables.  My  poor  lad,  that  mother  of  yours  was  a  bad  one. 
Wlat  do  you  want  to  hunt  her  up  for?'* 

"She's  my  mother,  sir,"  Joe  answered,  with  a  second 
gulp,  "  and  I'm  very  poor,  and  ill,  and  lonely.  I  would  like 
to  find  her,  to  look  at  her — she's  a  lady,  I've  heerd,  sir — to 
hear  her  speak  one  kind  word  to  me.  Pgo  never  knotm 
naught  0*  kindness— Fee  been  cuffed  and  kicked  all  my  lifOp 
and  I  would  like  to  find  her,  and — and — and  "—Joe  fairly 
sobbed — '*  feyther  was  bad  to  her,  sir — they  fay  so — and  if 
she  did  kill  him — and  it's  not  kno^n  for  sartaiu,  sir — I 
wouldn't  be  too  hard  on  her.  Maybe  she  would  say  a  kind 
word  to  her  son — I  wouldn't  ax  mooch." 

He  drew  the  sleeve  of  his  tattered  jacket  across  his  eyes,  and 
turned  a  little  away,  a?hamed  of  the  grimy  tears, 

"  You're  a  good  lad,  Joe,"  Macgrcgor  said,  "  anG  I'll  take 
you  to  black  my  boots  and  brush  my  coat.  Who  told  you 
your  mother  was  in  Speckhaven?" 

**  It  were  sum'muu  I  know,  a-passin'  through  the  town, 
seed  a  lady  in  a  carriage  with  a  face  like  this  in  the  picter. 
He  told  me,  and  I  tramped  over  from  Lunnon.  Thanky  for 
the  work,  sir.     I'll  do  my  best.' 

"  And  supposing!:  your  mother  is  here,  how  are  you  going  to 
know  her?  You  have  never  seen  her  since  your  infancy.  By 
the  picture?" 

**bythe  picter,  sir — j'es.  I'll  know  her  when  I  see  her. 
Could  you  help  me  find  her — " 

Macgregor  waved  his  hand,  and  took  up  a  fresh  cigar. 

**  I  can't  help  you — no.  Go  to  the  kitchen  now,  and  gefc 
your  supper.  To-morrow  you'll  fetch  over  your  traps  from 
Speckhaven,  and  consider  yourself  a  fixture  here  for  the  pres- 
ent." 

The  new  valet  made  a  shuffling  obeisance  and  departed. 
Mrs.  Hurst  administered  supper  and  a  little  Piiinock's  Cate- 
chism touching  his  antecedents;  but  Joe  was  not  nearly  po 
communicative  with  her  as  with  the  gentleman  who  had  hired 
him.  He  eat  his  supper,  and  slouched  up  to  the  vacant  apart- 
ment of  Monsieur  Fran(;ois,  the  elegance  of  which  chamber 
made  his  black  eyes  open  wide.  He  Eat  down  on  the  bed, 
weak  still  after  his  recent  illness,  and  drawing  out  his  cher- 
ished picture,  gazed  upon  it  as  fondly  as  ever  lover  on  the  fair 
face  of  an  absent  mistress. 

**  If  I  can  only  find  her,"  Joe  thought,  "  so  beautiful  and 
sograndl  And  if  she'll  .^penk  one  kind  word  to  me,  and  let 
me  call  her  mother  once,  I'll  a=;k  no  more." 

Long  after  Jo6  had  pi^t  away  his  precious  miniature,  and 


178 


>fHO  wnfB? 


bad  falVen  asleep  in  ike  summer  darkness,  Joe's  master  sat  Ii 
the  wmdow,  smoking  and  thinking.  The  white  licht  of  the 
stars  and  the  moon  made  that  leafy  retreat  unspeakbly  beauti* 
f ul,  but  for  once  the  artist  taw  not  the  silvery  loveliness  of  ^hd 
landscape. 

*'  It  is  snrely  the  hand  of  fate/'  he  thought,  with  strange 
iolemnity,  "  that  sends  that  boy  here,  and  to  me  !  To  me,  of 
all  men  in  the  world.  Will  she  know  him,  I  wonder?  Poor, 
foolish  Joe!  His  maternity  is  written  plainly  enough  in  his 
face.  By  Heaven!  bad  as  she  is,  I  would  be  almost  tempted 
to  forego  my  revenge  and  spare  her  yet,  if  she  shows  herself  a 
mother  to  that  lad." 

He  threw  away  his  cigar  presently,  and  strolled  out  in  the 
luminous  darkness  of  the  Prior's  Walk. 

"  I  can  understand  Iier  deserting  him  before,  when  half 
maddened  by  terror  and  remorse;  but  now,  when  danger 
there  is  none,  or  comparatively  none,  surely  she  will  not  Bhow 
herself  lower  than  the  tigress  or  the  wolf.  They  cherish  their 
young,  at  least;  and  poor,  humble,  ill-used  Joe,  he  does  not 
ask  much.  Yes,  Rose  Dawson — lost,  plotting,  unprincipled 
wretch  that  you  are,  I  will  deal  with  you  as  you  deal  with  your 
son!" 

Joe  Dawson's  duties  began  next  day,  and  Joe  made  up  in 
good  will  what  he  lacked  in  skill.  They  were  lamentable,  cer- 
tainly. Lis  best  efforts,  after  that  master  artist.  Monsieur  Fran- 
cois; but  Macgregor  had  his  own  reasons  for  tolerating  his 
new  valet,  and  putting  up  composedly  w'th  his  blunders.  He 
watched  him  curiously,  as  he  smoked  and  lounged  about  his 
attic,  keeping  his  henchman  busy  there  at  fifty  odd  jobs.  It 
was  a  strange  study  to  see  the  likeness  of  the  elegant  little  lady 
over  at  Chudleigh  Chase  snowing  in  a  hundred  looko  and  ways 
of  the  uncouth  servant  lad. 

Charley  dropped  in  in  the  course  of  the  day.  It  had  grown 
to  be  his  daily  habit  now,  this  sauntering  over  for  a  morning 
call  upon  his  Orestes. 

"  Busy,  as  usual?"  he  remarked,  lounging  in,  looking  in- 
expressibly handsome  and  cool  in  his  summer  suit  of  spotless 
linen.  "  If  I  disturb  the  exercises,  I'll  go."  (Macgregoi,  in 
the  deep,  rose-shaded  window-scat,  was  writing.)  "Where- 
abouts are  you?  Is  Lord  Charlemagne  Charlemount  on  his 
knees  to  the  lovely  Lady  Sleopehanks?  Or  is  the  Black  Bandit 
in  the  act  of  leaping  from  the  top  of  the  Martello  Tower  with 
the  shrieking  Aureola  Pasdebai^cjue  in  his  arms,  or  has  Iilinaldo 
Rinaldi,  the  magnincent  hero  of  the  tale,  ne  dazzling  6o:i  of 
'poor  but  honest  parents/  just  been  consigned  to  the  deepest 


WHO  Wnrs  f 


m 


r  sat  Is 
of  the 

beautU 
of  ih9 

strange 

me,  of 

Poor, 

m  his 

;mpted 

rself  a 

iu  the 


dnngeon  benQatV  the  castle  moat  by  that  black-hearted  scotm- 
drel,  the  gouty  old  Marquis  of  Cambas?  Egad!  Macgregor, 
you  sensation  noveh'sts  are  tremendous  fellows,  and  play  the 
Tery  mischief  with  the  women's  noddles.  Say  the  word,  and 
m  go;  I've  the  greatest  awe  of  the  profession,  and  wouldn't 
interrupt  a  thrilling  chapter  for  countless  worlds." 

*'  How  do,  CharLy?"  Macgregor  said,  lazily,  in  reply  to 
Ibis  extempore  harangue.  *'  Come  in  and  have  a  weed.  Find 
a  chair  somewhere — oh  I  never  mind  the  MSS. — can't  be  in  a 
greater  muddle  than  they  are  at  present.  The  Black  Buc- 
caneer of  the  Bosphorus — i:)lGasant  swarm  of  bees  that — has 
just  chloroformed  and  abducted  the  Duchess  of  Mount  Tre- 
mendous, and  borne  her  off  to  his  galley.  Vo  they  have  gal- 
leys on  the  Bosphorus,  I  wonder?  How's  Lady  Lemox  and 
Miss  Trevanion?"' 

*'  Lady  Lemox  is  well  enough,  and  plaintive  as  ever.  Miss 
Trevanion  is — hanged  if  I  know!  You  saw  her  last.  Had  a 
pleasant  evening  at  Chudleigh  Chase,  and  beat  the  baronet  at 
ScarfCy  1  dare  swear?" 

'•*  Yes,  to  both.     Joe,  let  those  things  alone.      Your  big 

made  to  handle  soft  paste  and  Du  Barri 
You  see,  Lemox,  I  have  got  a  successor  to 


Rather  a  behemoth,  after  that  silken. 
And — hey!     By  Jove,  Mac- 


fingers  were  never 
cups  and  saucers. 
Francois." 

**  So  I  perceive, 
slipperv,  eel-like  Frenchman, 
gregor!" 

*'  Well,'*  the  author  said,  quietly,  "  what's  the  matter? 
Sat  on  an  upturned  carpet  tack?"  for  Charley  had  started  in 
a  most  remarkable  manner,  and  was  staring  blankly  at  the 
disconcerted  Joe. 

*' Hey!  Don't  you  see?  By  Geo.-ge!  it's  as  plain  as  day- 
light! This  fellow  of  yours  is  as  like  the  little  widov?  as  two 
peas.  There's  her  eyes,  and  nose,  and  chin,  as  plain  as  if  he 
Lad  been  cast  in  the  same  mold!" 

*•  Another  *  accidental  resymblance!'  Where  are  they  go- 
ing to  end,  I  wonder.  Yes,  he  is  like  tuat  bewitching  little 
dark  fairy.  Joe,  my  lad,  Doctor  Faustns  has  had  no  dinner. 
Suppose  you  take  him  round  to  the  kitchen  and  give  him  that 
midday  meal." 

Joe  docilely  led  off  the  dog,  and  Charley,  after  lounging 
about  for  an  hour  or  more,  took  his  departure.  The  author 
of  the  "  B.  B.  B."  threw  away  his  cigar,  dipped  his  pen  in 
the  ink,  and  wciu,  (^^  yvith  his  interrupted  narrative,  as  swiftly 
as  though  he  had  never  been  disturbed.  He  wrote  for  some 
hours^  aud  collecteci  a  vast  heap  of  damp  foolscap  about  him^ 


180 


WHO  wnrs  t 


J 


his  pen  akurrying  wildly  over  the  paper.  Then,  as  Viis  watcli 
pointed  to  five,  he  struck  work,  and  raug  the  bell,  which  gav« 
the  signal  for  dinner. 

Joe  brought  in  that  meal,  a  very  frugal  one,  on  a  tray. 
The  author  was  washing:  his  hands,  and  turned  round  from  the 
lavatory  to  address  his  lackey. 

*'  Do  you  know  Chudieigh  Chase,  Joe?  Sir  Rupert  Chud- 
leigh's  place — six  or  seven  miles  from  here?" 

**  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  I  want  you  to  go  there  with  a  message — a  note — and 
wait  for  an  answer.  You  will  ask  for  Mrs.  Ingram — remem- 
ber, Jk'rs.  liifjram — and  deliver  the  note  into  no  hands  but 
hers." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  You'ii  walk  over  to  Speckhaven,  and  hire  a  hack  at  the 
stables.  You'll  reach  Chudieigh  Chase  boioro  seven — Iheir 
dinner  hour — iind  the  lady  is  safe  to  be  at  horae.    Here." 

He  scrawled  a  line  in  pencil,  and  handed  it  to  his  servant. 
It  ran: 


**  Rose  Dawson, — Once  again,  and  for  the  last  time,  I  ask 
you:  Do  you  accept  my  t'::r?  Will  you  quit  the  country?  I 
don't  war  with  ^"omen,  if  I  <  ..n  help  it.  Hewjember,  this  is 
your  last  chance.     Refus^^,  and  I  shall  know  no  mercy. 

"Macoregor." 

"  You  will  give  the  lady  this  note,  Joe,  and  wait  for  an  an- 
swer. If  your  horse  is  worth  anything,  you'll  be  back  here  by 
half  past  eight." 

Joe  departed  upon  his  mission,  and  the  hermit  of  the  Re- 
treat watched  him  out  of  sight  with  a  smile  upon  his  face. 

*' Now,  then,"  he  muttered — "now  for  the  tug  of  warl 
He'll  know  her  as  soon  as  he  sees  her,  and  ?he'll  know  him. 
As  she  deals  by  him,  so  will  I  deal  by  her."  ^ 

Macgregor's  valet  got  a  horse,  and  rode  at  a  good  pace  to 
Chudieigh  Chase.  The  big  bell  up  in  the  windy  cupola  was 
sounding  its  ^unorous  summons  to  dinner  as  Joe  rede  up  the 
ftvenat;  to  the  grand  portico  entraiicc  of  the  mansion. 

He  sprun^^  from  the  saddle,  and  was  about  to  turn  in  quest 
of  some  less  pretentious  portal,  when,  lifting  his  eyes,  he  be- 
a^iid  a  vision  that  struck  !iim  dumb  with  splendor. 

A  lady  was  wa'king  slowly  fi*om  the  shrubbery  toward  the 
/iouse — a  lady  in  a  rich,  trailing  dross,  that  blushed  as  she 
walked,  half  dove  color,  half  roLc—a  lady  with  crimson  camel- 
lias in  her  glossy  black  hair,  and  crimson  roses  on  her  breast 
—a  lady  beautiful  as  his  dream  of  the  angels— supposing  poor 


rese 


(( 


Ingi 


WHO  wrifsf 


181 


Jhud- 


Joe  over  did  dream  of  those  celestial  messengers — and  sta^t- 
lingly  and  amazingly  like  the  pictured  face  he  wore  over  his 
heart. 

He  stood  still  and  stared — open-eyed,  open-mouthed.  Th« 
lady  espied  him,  noticed  that  wild  stare,  and  paused.  And 
mother  and  son  stood  face  to  face! 

She  did  not  know  him,  of  course — she  did  not  even  see  his 
resemblance  to  herself — but  she  paused,  in  passing,  to  speak. 

*'  Who  are  you?"  ehe  said,  sharply.  *'  Why  do  you  stand 
and  gape  at  vw  ?    What  brings  you  hei'<"?" 

Joe  pulled  off  his  cap,  still  open-mouthed  and  open-eyed. 

"  Beg  piirding,  mum.  I  was  sent  with  a  letter  for  Mrs. 
Ingram.  *' 

'*  7  am  Mrs.  Ingram.     Give  me  the  letter.     Who  sent 


you 


p" 


**  My  master,  mum — over  yonder.'* 

He  waved  his  caj)  vaguely  toward  the  horizon,  handirg  her 
the  unsealed  note  mcjliunicall}',  and  still  gazing  in  that  wild 
trance. 

She  untwisted  the  paper,  read  it,  her  dark  face  fa  ^hing 
deep  red  with  anger.  Slio  looked  up,  as  she  finis!  cd,  t.  ith 
dangerously  glittering  eyes. 

*'  You  were  to  wait  for  an  answer,  were  you?  Here  i  my 
answer;  tell  your  master  so." 

She  tore  the  letter  into  a  dozen  fragmr  is,  and  flung  ibem 
passionately  on  the  grass  at  his  feet. 


''  Tell 
stupid? 


your  master  I  hate  and  defy  iiim!    Do  you  hear. 
Tell  him  to  do  his  worst!" 

"  Yes,  mum,"  Joe  said,  mechanically.  "  Oh,  good  I^r*I*' 
rousing  suddenly  up,  "  ir/tal  does  this  here  go  mean?" 

**  What  are  you  waiting  for?"  Mrs.  Ingram  asked,  aogrily. 
^^  I  have  given  you  your  answer." 

"  Beg  your  parding,  mum,"  Joe  said,  for  the  second  time, 
"  it's  along  of  a  picter.  Do  look  at  it,  mum,  and  you'll  see 
for  yourself." 

He  jerked  out  his  beloved  miniature,  and  opened  it,,  with 
fingers  trembling  with  eagerness,  and  1\  -ided  it  to  the  lf.dy. 

Mrs.  Ingram  recoiled,  with  a  glance  o^  disgust. 

**  What  do  you  mean,  fellow?  Do  you  suppose  i  am  going 
to  look  at  your  filthy  picture?    Be  gonel" 

*'  Yes,  mum,"  Joe  said,  wildly;  "  but  do — do  look  at  it 
first,  mum.     It's  your  own  picter." 

*'  My  piclurel — vunc?''  -"  o  snatched  it  out  of  his  Land — 
looked  at  it  ]n  wild  wonder,  For  Heavtin's  sake,  wher^^  did 
you  get  this?" 


iiiiiiiifti^ff 


189 


\ 


WHO  wnref 


"  They  took  ifc  from  feyther,  afore  they  buned  him,  mum. 
It's  yohr  picter,  and  you're — " 

"  Who  are  ystu?'*  Hie  lady  exclaimed,  with  a  gasp  of  un- 
utterable terror,  slai-iiig  at  him  as  wide-eyed  as  he  had  ever 
stared  at  her.     "  What  is  your  uamo?" 

"  Joe  Dawson,  mum." 

She  recoiled  with  a  scream — a  scream  of  wordless  horror. 
Had  the  murdered  man  risen  from  his  unavenged  grave,  and 
8l.ood,  ghastly  and  awful,  before  her  in  the  silvery  twilight, 
her  face  could  not  have  turned  of  a  more  livid  hue. 

'*  And  vou  are—" 

*'  Your  so)i/'  Joe  said,  bravely,  yet  trembling  from  head  to 
foot.  *'  They  found  me  when  they  found  feylher — he  was 
dead,  and  I  was  asleep.  They  brought  me  up  iu  the  workus, 
and  I  have  been  looking  for  yoit  all  my  life.'" 

**  You  insolent  boorT  How  dare  you!  /  your  mother!  I 
will  have  you  sliut  up  as  a  madman  if  you  ever  repeat  thatly- 
iiig  slander.     Have  you  dared  to  tell  atiy  one — to  show  t/iis^'* 

She  flung  the  picture,  with  all  her  for.e,  into  the  fish-pond 
near,  and  waited,  with  livid  face  and  blazing  eyes. 

**  Yes,"  Joe  said,  sullenly;  "  I  have  told  the  master.  He 
kaew  :t  hisself  afore." 

She  uttered  a  cry — the  fierce  cry  of  a  wounded  leopardess— 
and  stamped  her  foot  fiercely  on  the  yielding  turf. 

"  Be  gone,  you  insolent  hound!  and  never  dare  repeat  your 
iJes,  or  1  will  have  you  shut  up  where  only  four  padded  walls 
and  madmen,  like  yourself,  can  hear  them.     Be  gone!" 

**  i  beant  mad,"  Joe  retorted,  still  .more  sullenly;  "and 
they  bc;  nt  lies.  That  picter  is  your  picter,  and  you  are  my 
Jnc»-^h,erl'~ 

W'iUi  a  ihird  cry  of  inexpressible  fury  Mrs.  Ingram  darted 
foi"^: 'd  ijlv 9  a  pan iher,  wrenched  the  riding-whip  out  of  the 
lad     hand;  mic  struck  him  again  and  again  across  the  face. 

*"  ^ou  false  scoundrel!  You  insolent  boori  Now  will  you 
repeat  your  lies  t?  my  face?" 

She  flung  th<3  whip  at  him,  and  was  gone  like  a  flash.  And 
Joe  stood  st,ock-still  wiure  she  had  left  him —too  stunned  to 
move.  Half  a  dozen  stinging  blows  she  had  cut  him  across  the 
face;  the  livid  welts  were  rising  alrrady,  and  the  countenance 
of  the  lad,  there  aionc  ia  the  purpie  gloaming,  was  not  good 
to  look  upon- 

There  had  been  a  witf  o?r-  of  this  little  scene.  Gwendoline 
Cbudleigh,  from  h-r  dies^-ingroora  window,  had  beheld  it  all 
with  horror.    As  the  boj  tuiued  to  depart,  a  plump  figure  in 


WHO  wnwf 


IBI 


a  pfnk  dress  came  flying  down  the  aveiiTie^  and  a  little  fat 
jeweled  baud  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

**  For  goodness  gracious  sake,  stop!"  panted  Gwen,  breath- 
lessly,  "  and  tell  mo  who  you  are,  and  what  you  said  to  that 
horrid  woman,  to  make  her  horsewhip  you?'* 

Joe  looked  up.  The  livid  welts  were  very  plain  now,  and 
tender-hearted  Gwen  winced  as  she  saw  them. 

**  It*8  no  matter,  miss,"  Joe  said,  in  a  very  low  Toic6, 
touching  his  cap.     *'  I'd  rather  not  tell." 

"  But  I'm  dying  to  know!"  persisted  Miss  Chudleigh.  **  I 
hate  her  as  the — as  somebody  hates  holy  water!  Do  tell  me 
what  you  said  to  make  her  so  tearing  mad?" 

**]Slo,  miss,"  Macgregor's  messenger  auiswered,  holding 
down  his  head,  "  I  can't." 

"You  poor  fellow!  Just  see  your  face,  all  red  cuts  with 
that  brutal  whip.  I'm  so  sorry!  Here,  take  this,  aud  tell  me 
what's  your  name." 

*'  My  name's  Joe  Dawson,  and  I  don't  want  your  money, 
miss,  t hanky." 

"  Never  liiind;  keep  it,  Joe  Dawson.     Oh,  won't  I  tell  papa 

f  this  when  he  comes  home!    Joe,  I'd — I'd  do  anything  for 

you,  if  you  would  only  tell  me  what  you  said  to  Mrs.  Ingram.*' 

*'  I'm  very  sorry,  miss,  but  I  can't  tell  you-  I  must  go,  if 
you  please;  he'll  be  waiting.'* 

"Who'll  be\vaiting?" 

"  Mr.  Macgregor,  miss.'* 

*MVhat!"  Gwen  cried,  "are  you  Mr.  Macgregor'i  new 
servant?    Did  he  send  you  here?*' 

"  Yes,  miss." 

**  Willi  a  message?'* 

*MVith  a  note,  miss." 

"  To  Mrs.  Ingram?" 

"  Yes,  miss." 

**  Wai  it  the  note  that  made  hey  so  angry— that,  made  her 
Iiorsewhip  you?'* 

"  No,  miss." 

*'  Something  you  said  to  her  yourself?" 

**  Y'es,  miss." 

"  Did  she  answer  the  note?" 

"  Yes,  miss.  She  tore  it  up,  and  told  m©  to  tell  him  so. 
And  I  must  go,  miss,"  cried  out  poor  Joe,  frantically.  **  I 
must  get  back  before  ni!ie.  *' 

He  fairly  broke  from  the  baronet's  (laughter,  and  rode  rap- 
idly home.  The  silver  stars  were  all  sown  broadcast  in  tnr^ 
deep  blue  August  sky  belure  he  reached  the  Ketrt^t.     Hia 


184 


WHO  wnrsf 


ts» 


iff 


master  was  leaning  over  the  low  wicket,  enjoying  the  moon- 
iight  and  his  inevitable  cigar, 

**  Well,  Joe,"  he  said;  "  and  you  saw  the  lady?^ 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  delivered  my  note?' 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  What's  the  answer,  my  lad?" 

'*  She  tore  it  up  in  little  pieces,  and  told  me  ehe  dioM  yoa, 
and  vou  might  do  your  worst  I" 

**  ilmnph!  She  did,  did  she?  Little  devil!  Joo,  my  boy," 
laying  his  hand  suddenly  on  his  scrvant^s  shoulder,  ^*  did  ybtt 
know  her?'^ 

^^  1  did,  sir,"  Joe  answered,  very  quietly. 

*'  And  she  knew  you?" 

Joe  lifted  hi:^  head  and  took  off  his  cap.  The  moonlight  fel\ 
full  on  the  grisly  marks  of  the  horsewhip. 

"  Look  here,  sir,''  he  said,  huskily.  *'  I  told  her  who  I  was; 
I  showed  her  the  picter.  She  threw  :t  into  the  fish-pond.  She 
enatehed  the  whip  out  of  my  hand,  aiid  she  gave  me  this." 

"Good  God!"  Macgregor  said,  absolutely  turning  white 
v/ith  horror,  "  your  mother  did  that,  Joe?" 

**  She  called  me  a  liar  and  a  hound;  she  did  this.  I  don't 
laind  the  pain,  sir — it  isn't  that — " 

The  lad's  voice  broke  down,  and  he  sobbed  outright. 

**  Joe,  Joe,  my  poor  fellow!"  his  master  said,  his  own  eyea 
humid. 

But  Joe  Dawson  turned  abruptly  away,  and  plunged  into 
the  woodland. 

'*  It  is  over!"  Mat'grcgor  said,  between  his  clinched  teeth. 
"  By  the  Eternal!  she  shall  reap  as  she  sows  Sho  has  sown 
the  wind —she  shall  reap  the  whirlwind.  You  have  gone  the 
length  of  your  tether,  Mrs.  Ingram.  Now  beware  of  Angus 
Macgregcrl" 

An  hour  after,  following  guardedly  in  the  direction  Joe  had 
taken,  he  came  upon  him  lying  on  the  grass,  face  downward, 
still  as  a  atou&. 


CHAPTER  XXin. 

THE  SECRET  OF  MONKS  WOOD  WASTE. 

Thz  pretty  widow  at  Chudicigh  Ci  .<?e,  besides  the  Tirtues 
of  beauty,  elegance  ar.d  grace,  had  the  ':1itional  virtue  of  be- 
ing a  constant  atteidani,  at  d/v'inc  worship. 

Twice  everj  Su!iday,  rai)i  or  shine,  you  saw  her  in  the  bar- 
onsfa  groat  oarved,  anu  cuc^liion^  and.  curtainiMi  pew«  her 


larg«,  tender  dark  eyes  raised  with  killing  execution  to  the 

greacher's  face,  and  the  dimpled  eliiii  ana  rose-bloom  cheeici 
•amed  in  some  exquisite  ^em  of  a. Parisian  bonnet. 

She  was  very  devout,  and  carried  a  booli  of  Common  Prayer, 
and  prayed  for  the  queen  and  royal  family,  and  "  us  miserable 
linnerSj     with  an  unction  good  to  hear. 

She  was  not  only  very  devout  herself,  but  the  cause  of  devo- 
tion in  others;  for,  besides  half  a  dozen  bearded  adorers,  who 
followed  their  dove-eyed  divinity  lo  church  morning  and  after- 
nooUj  she  insisted  on  fetching  Gwendoline,  willy-nilly.  Sir 
Rupert  laughed  t^ardonically,  and  issued  a  paternal  bull  that 
his  daughter  was  to  obey. 

**  I  don't  suppose  it  will  do  her  any  good,''  the  old  disciple 
of  Voltaire  said,  grimly.  "  She'll  criticise  the  bonnets,  and 
make  eyes  at  those  fellows  from  the  Speckhaven  IJarracks,  or 
fall  asleep  over  the  sermon;  but  take  her  with  you,  by  all 
means,  my  dear  madame.  Going  to  church  on  Sunday  gives 
an  air  of  respectability  to  week-day  sins,  and  1  don't  want  her 
at  home." 

Gwendoline  did  criticise  the  bonnets,  and  *'  make  eyes  "  at 
the  fellows  from  Speckhaven  Barracks,  I  regret  to  say;  and,  if 
she  didn't  fall  asleep  during  the  sermon,  fidgeted  and  yawned 
fearfully  in  the  rector's  face. 

But  sometimes — oh,  blissful  times  I — Lieutenant  P.  8. 
Dobbs  swarmed  up  the  aisle  in  mufti,  with  those  soul-inspiring 
whiskers  and  heavenly  eyes  of  his;  and  then  the  damp,  stuffy 
old  church  turned  suddenly  to  paradise,  and  Gwendoline  to 
one  of  the  peris. 

They  rather  poked  fun  at  the  lieutenant,  and  his  fair,  girl- 
ish face — his  brother  otficers.  They  called  him  "  Postscript 
Dobbs,"  in  sarcastic  allusion  to  his  initials,  and  made  sardonio 
inquiries  as  to  whether  Miss  Chudleigh  had  proposed  yet,  sug- 
gesting that  he  had  better  write  home  to  Mamma  Dobbs  to 
come  and  protect  her  helpless  lambkin,  and  demand  Miss'C.'s 
intentions. 

They  were  rather  clumsy  and  ponderous,  these  mess-room 
jokes — like  the  jokers  themselves,  big,  florid-faced,  ginger- 
whiskered,  slashing,  dashing,  fox-hunting  fellows,  hard  riders, 
hard  drinkers,  hard  swearers,  and  who  would  have  called  an 
archangel  names. 

Among  the  train  of  devotees  whom  that  fair  saint,  Mrs.  In- 
gram, drew  to  church,  may  be  mentioned  Colonel  Trevanion. 

On  the  day  following  that  iittle  horsewhipping  scene,  the 
pretty  widow,  floating  up  the  aisle  and  into  the  big  state  pew, 
ourying  her  face  in  a  perfumed  cobweb  of  lace  handkercniei^ 


imo  wnrtf 


1 


MW  yet  very  distinctly  Cyril  Trevaiiion  watching  her  with 
burning  eyes  from  hia  place  in  the  chancel. 

She  was  alone  this  Sunday.  iSir  Ktipert  was  in  London,  and 
Owendoliue  had  openly  mutinied.  Tiantagcnet  would  not  be 
there. 

"  No,  I  won*t  gol'*  Gwen  said,  tossing  saucily  her  red- 
brown  curls;  **  1  don't  pretend  to  be  a  Christian  on  Sunday, 
and  horsewhip  poor  dcrcnseless  servant-boys  on  Saturday. 
You  may  go  to  church,  and  pray  for  forgiveness — I  dare  say 
you  need  it— but  I  will  stay  at  home." 

It  was  the  first  time  her  pupil  had  openly  rebelled.  The 
widow  grew  pale  with  anger. 

**  Miss  Chudleigh,  how  dare  you?  You  forgot  yourself.  I 
ihall  repeat  this  insolence  to  your  father." 

"  I  know  you  will,'*  Gwen  retorted,  with  a  second  toss; 
"and  more  too,  if  necessary'.  Vvo  got  a  little  story  for  him 
also— that  charming  scene  wliero  tlie  clcg.int  Mrs.  Ingram 
horsewhips  poor  Jor  Dawson.  I'll  ask  Mr.  Macgregor  to  make 
a  sketch  of  it  for  me,  and  I'll  hang  it  up  in  my  room  and  re- 
late the  adventure  to  all  your  numerous  admirers." 

"  You  impertirier' — '  The  widow  niiide  as  though  to  box 
her  audacious  pupil's  ears,  but  Miss  Chudleigh  dre^v  herself 
suddenly  up,  with  flashing  blue  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  lay  a  finger  on  me,  Mrs.  Ingram!  I  am  Sir 
Rupert  Chudleigh's  daughter  and  heiress.  You  are — what 
are  you,  Mrs.  Ingram?  I  wonder  if  that  poor  Joe  Dawson 
knows?" 

Mrs.  Ingram  stood  white  to  the  lips  with  intense  rage,  yet 
powerless  before  this  impertinent  little  girl. 

"  You  sing  quite  a  new  tune  of  late,  Miss  Chudleigh,'*  she 
said,  with  a  sneer.  "It  is  well  to  hnvo  good  blood  in  one's 
veins,  even  on  one's  father's  side.  Or  has  the  lieutenant,  Mi- 
chael Cassio,  the  great  Dobbs,  proposed ;  and  are  you  and  he 
about  to  make  a  moonlight  flitting  of  it?  How  delighted  Sir 
Rupert  will  be  to  find  the  Tallow  Candle  of  the  haughty  Dobbs 
added  to  the  Chudleigh  quarterings." 

"With  which  parting  shot  Mrs.  Ingram,  who  let  very  few 
people  ever  get  the  better  of  her,  swept  away  to  church  alone. 
And  when  service  was  over,  sha  found  herself  surrounded  by 
a  little  throng  of  devoted  admirers  in  the  porch.  She  had  a 
smile,  and  a  word,  and  a  nod,  or  a  touch  of  the  exquisitely 
kidded  bar  -,  for  all,  and,  q.a  nhe  .ooked  into  the  haggard  face 
and  blood-shot  eyes  of  Cyril  Trovanion,  she  pressed  into  his 
pahn  a  tiny  note.    As  she  drove  away  in  the  dainty  Uttle 


Witt  vnref 


er  with 

|on,  and 
not  ba 

lor  rnd- 

punday, 
I  turd  ay. 
lare  say 

The 
self.    I 

^^  toss; 
or  him 

"gram 
3  make 
iind  re- 

to  box 
herself 

am  Sir 
-what 
'avvson 

:e,  yefc 

''she 
one'g 
%  Mio 
tid  he 
■d  Sir 
)obba 

few 
fone. 
dby 
ad  a 
Italy 
face 
>  his 
ttle 


Iff 


phaeton,  witVi  ite  high-stepping  ponies,  she  arched  her  alender 
eyebrovvB  with  a  half-picyiiig,  naif-contemptuous  smile, 

*' Poor  wretch!  how  drearily  miperable  he  does  Jock,  and 
how  absurdly  ho  is  infatuated  with  me.  Thank  Ueaven,  I 
have  never  known  what  love  meant  since  I  was  a  moon-struck 
girl  of  fifteen.  A  lovesick  woman  is,  of  all  the  sickening  idiota 
upon  earth,  the  most  si'-icening,  except  a  love-struck  man,  and 
he  's  worse.  Why  do  men — magnificent  fellows  that  they  can 
b3,  a  little  lower  than  the  gods,  great  in  war,  great  in  the 
senate,  witii  the  world  and  all  its  glories  at  their  feet — why  do 
they  ever  stoop  to  lose  their  heads  for  such  dots  of  thinffs  ftl 
we?  Bah!  the  best  of  us  are  cosmetiq^ued  and  crinolined  ba- 
bies of  a  taller  growth,  with  souls  no  higher  than  our  ringleti 
and  ribbons,  and  brains  just  strong  enough  to  tear  each  other'i 
reputations  and  bonnets  to  tatters  without  mercy.  Half  im- 
beciles make  always  the  most  tyrannically  brutal  task-mas- 
ters; that  is  why,  I  dare  say,  one  woman  never  knows  mercy 
for  another.  The  men  will  say:  *  Poor  devil,  she's  to  bo  pit- 
ied, too.'  But  we — oh,  Heaven  help  the  poor  victim  left  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  her  own  sex!" 

The  note  which  Mrs.  Ingram  had  left  in  the  grasp  of  her 
haggard  worshiper  bore  neither  date  nor  signature,  and  wai 
written  in  a  feigned  iiand. 

'*  Don't  come  here  to-day.  Be  at  the  entrance  of  the  deer- 
park  to-morrow  night,  at  half  past  nine.  Have  a  pony-chaise 
in  waiting,  and  fetch  a  dark  lantern.     Destroy  this." 

Cyril  Trevanion  read  and  obeyed.  He  twisted  the  widow's 
note"^  into  a  pipe-lighter,  and  lighted  his  meerschaum  as  he 
walked  back  to  the  Silver  Swan.  He  had  sent  to  Trevanion 
for  his  luggage,  and  the  story  was  whispered  through  the  town 
how  General  Trevanion's  heiress  and  General  Trevanion's  son 
had  quarreled  and  parted.  Of  course,  the  men  and  the  women 
'•jook  each  their  own  view  of  the  matter. 

"  kServed  the  beggar  right,"  Colonel  Gaunt  said,  at  the  head 
cf  the  mess-table."  *'  Tlie  fellow  is  as  dour  as  the  deuce — a 
sulky,  underbred  cur!  By  George!  sir,  it  speaks  ill  for  the  old 
blooi  to  see  it  deteriorate  in  this  manner.  The  Trevanions 
were  the  bravest  soldiers,  the  most  gallant  gentlemen  that 
ever  graced  battle-field  or  ball-room,  and  nozo  look  at  the  last 
of  'em!" 

**  1  wonder  if  there  is  sr.ch  a  thing  as  witchcraft?"  a  dash- 
ing yonng  captain  said.  '*  Trevanion  used  to  be  one  of  the 
bi'Evest  and  best  fellows  tl^at  ever  led  a  forlorn  hope  or  scaled 
%  breach.    By  Jove!  he  was  idolized  in  the  regiment;,  mxd  he 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


ISO 


2.5 


■^  1^    12.2 
Lto    112.0 


1.8 


—  "'"-^  IIIIIM 


6" 


m 


vQ 


/; 


^^ 


'/ 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WfST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14^30 

(716)  872-4S03 


«- 


6^ 


lae 


rmo  woxnt 


was  the  dead-shot  and  crack  swordsman  of  the  brigade.    When 
I  look  at  him  as  he  is,  and  think  of  what  he  used  to  be—" 

Captain  Harcourt  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  passed  the 
daret. 

"  I  always  knew  how  it  would  end,"  was  the  feminine  Ytr- 
dict  over  the  post  meridian  Souchong.  "  She  has  got  his  fort- 
une, and  she  throws  him  over,  of  course.  She  will  be  pre- 
sented at  court  next  season  by  Lady  Lemox,  and  will  marry  a 
title  and  a  coronet  without  doubt  The  girl  has  no  heart,  and 
she  has  the  pride  and  ambition  of  the  Miltonian  Lucifer,  or — 
the  *  fierce,  fearless  Trevanions.'  " 

Cyril  Trevanion  passed  the  period  of  probation  as  best  he 
might — smoking  endless  cigars,  strolling  aimlessly  about  the 
town,  staring  moodily  out  of  the  windows,  and  sleeping  a 
good  deal.  He  went  nowhere — he  had  nowhere  to  go,  indeed, 
for  he  was  universally  disliked,  and  he  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  his  arch-enemy,  Macgregor,  sauntering  arm  in  arm,  be- 
neath his  casement,  with  Colonel  Gaunt  and  young  Lord  Racer, 
ot  the  Royal  Rifles. 

Monday  n'ght  came,  chill  for  August,  with  an  overcast  sky 
and  a  raw,  complaining  wind  fresh  from  the  sea.  As  the  late 
dusk  fell.  Colonel  Trevanion  rattled  away  from  the  Silver 
Swan  in  a  pony-carriage,  the  dark  lantern  beneath  the  seat,  to 
keep  tryst  with  the  widow.  He  secured  the  chaise  just  with- 
out the  gates,  and  walked  up  to  the.  deer-park,  shivering 
slightly,  partly  with  nervous  dread,  partly  with  cold.  Phys- 
ically and  morally  the  man  was  craven  to  the  core;  and  the 
weird  shadows  cast  by  the  trees,  the  sough  of  the  gale  in  the 
woodland,  the  scampering  of  the  red  deer  and  rabbits  through 
the  open  made  his  teeth  chatter  like  a  hysterical  girl's.  The 
loud-voiced  clock  over  the  stables  solemnly  tolled  nine  as  he 
took  his  station. 

"  Half  an  hour  to  wait,"  he  thought,  discontentedly;  "  and 
this  place  is  dismal  as  a  church-yard." 

He  struck  a  luc.'fer  and  lighted  a  cigar — man's  **  best  com- 
panion" in  sorrow,  in  joy,  in  shadow. and  sunshine.  He 
leaned  apainst  a  vast  old  oak — a  dryad  patriarch — and  smoked 
and  watched  the  clouds  scudding  wildly  across  the  stormy  sky, 
and  the  d'ill  diapaa.on  of  rising  wind  and  sea. 

**  A  wild  ni^ht/'  the  watcher  thought;  **  th«  storm  will  b* 
with  UB  before  niidnighL'' 

What  was  that?  A  shadow  flitting  along  in  the  cloudy 
moonlight — a  shadow  not  of  deer  or  rabbit.  A  thin,  cold 
hand  grasped  his  wrist  and  held  him  as  in  a  vise.  The  man 
abiolate^  cried  out,  so  unexpected  was  it,  so  narrooi  wai  hi- 


iOon| 


WHO    WI¥»r 


lit 


'*  Faughl"  said  a  scorning  voice — a  silvery  voice  he  knew, 
•:',hich  yet  had  a  hard,  metallic  ring;  "don't  show  the  white 
feather  so  soon.  It  is  I,  Cyril  Trevanion,  and  not  a  ghost,  as  I 
suppose  you  took  me  to  be.     Have  you  been  long  waiting?" 

**  Half  an  hour,"  sulkily.  "  You  might  have  come 
sooner." 

"  Yes,  I  might  have  come  at  midday  if  I  chose,  but  1 
didn't.     Have  you  the  chaise  and  the  dark  laJitern?" 

**  Yes — just  outside.     What  do  you  want  them  for?" 

**  You  will  want  them  presently — not  I,  if  your — ahemi— 
oonstitutional  caution  is  not  greater  than  your  love  for  me, 
your  desire  for  revenge  and  riches.  The  chaise  is  to  take  yoa 
to  Monkswood  Priory,  and  the  lantern  is  to  light  you  on  your 
way  to  the  lost  will." 

"  To  Monkswood  Priory  to-night?" 

"Yes;  a  terrible  ordeal,  is  it  iici^  You  may  meet  the 
prior's  ghost,  awful  and  grim,  and  you're  sure  to  be  frightened 
mto  fits  by  whole  legions  of  rats  and  beetles.  I  feel  for  you, 
really;   but,  unfortunately,  it  is  *  nothing  venture,  nothing 


win. 


y  i> 


She  sneered  as  she  looked  up  in  his  face.  She  despised  him 
thoroughly,  as  all  women,  good  or  bad,  are  pretty  safe  to  de- 
flpise  the  most  virtuous  and  most  learned  of  men  if  a  coward. 
As  we  were  in  the  days  of  which  Homer  sung,  we  will  be  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter:  blind  adorers  of  what  few  of  us  pos- 
sess— physical  courage  and  strength. 

**  What  is  it  I  am  to  do?"  Cyril  Trevanion  said,  stung  by 
hex  taunting  tone.  *'  If  the  will  is  to  be  found,  I  will  find  it. 

"  Spoken  like  a  man  I  Let  me  see  you  act  like  one.  The 
will  is  hidden  in  the  Priory,  and  "  —she  lowered  her  voice  to  a 
thrilling  whisper — "  tlie  dead  body  of  General  Trevanion  with 

itr 

Rose  Ingram  could  feel  her  lover's  convulsive  start  and  re- 
'soil  as  she  held  him  thus. 

"  Swearl"  she  hissed  in  his  ear — "  swear  by  all  you  hold 
dear  on  earth  and  sacred  in  heaven,  to  keep  the  secret  I  am 
ftbont  to  reveal — swearl" 

She  shook  him  unconsciously,  in  her  fierce  excitemsnt 

*'l  swear." 

**  If  you  Wire  what  you  pretend  to  be — Cyril  Trevanion-^ 
know,  of  course,  it  would  be  sealing  my  own  doom  to  tell  you 
this.  But  you  are  not  Cyril  Trevanion,  and  the  dead  man  is 
nothing  to  you.  The  will  is.  Together  we  will  find  it,  to- 
gether we  will  share  his  wealth,  together  we  will  enjoy  oiw 
xtTiiDgttb    Swearl" 


.  ■tm 

.'  ■j'-'f 


ISO 


VKO  'nt3n\ 


"I  swear." 

"  Then  listen."  She  drew  near,  slipping  her  hand  throutfi 
his  arm,  and  speaking  in  a  rapid,  hissing  whisper.  "Sybil 
Trevanion  guessed  aright  when  she  surmised  that  I  knew  the 
secret  of  Moukswood  Waste.  I  did  not  murder  and  carry  off 
General  Trevanion,  as  I  think  she  half  beh'eves  1  did,  but  I 
know  what  became  of  him  and  the  will — the  will,  Cyril,  that 
leaves  you  sole  possessor  of  fifteen  thousand  a  year — that  beg- 
gars her  r* 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  breathlessly;  **only  tell  me 
where  to  find  that  will  I'* 

"  Let  me  tell  you  the  story  of  that  night,"  the  widow  said, 
steadily.  *'  Part  of  it  you  have  already  heard.  How  Sybil 
Trevanion  left  me  and  returned  to  her  chamber  for  the  second 
time.  IShe  gave  me  a  rare  fright,  I  promise  you — and  I  am 
not  easily  frightened,  either — when  she  appeared  before  me, 
on  the  threshold,  like  a  ghost,  and  found  me  in  the  very  act 
of  stealing  the  will  from  under  the  sick  man's  pillow.  For  I 
was  about  to  steal  it.  I  hated  General  Trevunion's  son — 
never  you  mind  why — and  if  it  lay  in  my  power,  he  would 
never  inherii;  his  father's  wealth.  Some  prescience  told  tho 
old  man  himself  what  I  was  about.  He  started  up  in  bed, 
grasped  me  by  the  wrist,  and  cried  out  shrilly  I  was  about  to 
murder  him.  All  this  you  know.  1  glossed  the  thing  over  to 
her.  The  old  man  fell  back  in  a  stupor.  I  persuaded  Sybil 
to  return  to  her  room,  and  I  was  again  alone  with  the  dying 
seigneur  of  Monksvvood. 

"  What  I  intended  to  do,  I  hardly  knew.  To  have  the  will 
I  was  resolved:  but  how  to  secure  it  without  exciting  suspicion 
was  a  puzzle.  No  doubt  the  master  I  had  served  so  long,  and 
who  had  never  yet  wholly  deserted  me  in  the  worst  emergency, 
would  have  popped  some  plan  into  my  head  before  morning, 
had  not  the  old  man  himself  sav^ed  me  the  trouble.  It  is  g, 
marvelous  occurrence  I  am  about  to  tell  you;  but,  though  I 
hate  to  used  the  hackneyed  axioms,  *  truth  in  stranger  than 
fiction  ' — a  great  deal  stranger,  as  it  turned  out  in  this  case, 

**  The  sick  man  could  not  sleep;  a  haunting  dread  of  me 
seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  him.  He  tossed  restlessly, 
muttering  to  himself.  I  could  catch  a  phrase  incoherently 
here  and  there,  and  always  of  me  and  the  will.  *  She  will 
murder  me,'  he  said — *  I  saw  it  in  her  eyes — those  wild,  wicked 
black  eyes — and  she  will  take  the  will'  I  am  afraid  ot  her. 
It  is  not  safe  under  my  pillow.  And  what  will  Cyril  say  to 
me  when  he  comes?  Hahr — he  started  up  in  bed  suddenly— 
*'  thare  is  tho  Pxior's  CelL    She  will  never  fiad  it  tlLer$  J* 


■„— • 


WHO  wars  f 


in 


"  His  eyes  were  wide  opei).,  glassy  and  staring.  I  declare 
to  you  I  thrilled  all  over  with  fear  as  I  looked  at  him.  He 
never  saw  me,  though  I  stood  up  before  him.  He  flung  down 
the  bed-clothes,  slowly  arose,  and  stood  before  me,  like  a  gal- 
vanized corpse,  in  his  long  night-gown  and  death- white  face. 
Yes,  ho  arose  and  stood  on  his  feet  in  his  sleep— that  dying 
man,  who  could  not  have  lifted  himself  in  bed  to  save  his  aoiu 
alive,  in  his  waking  moments. 

'*  He  took  the  will  out  from  under  the  pillow,  walked  un- 
steadily over  to  the  table,  and  lifted  up  a  candle  burning  there 
beside  the  dim  night-lamp.  He  made  no  noise;  and  if  he  had, 
Cleante  and  Mrs.  Teifer  slept  a  great  deal  too  soundly  to  be 
disturbed  by  it. 

'*  *  I'll  hide  it  in  the  Prior's  Cell/  he  muttered  again.  *  She 
will  never  find  it  there.' 

He  crossed  the  room,  carrying  tho  candle  and  the  parch- 


(( 


ment  in  his  left  hand,  straight  to  the 


figure  of 


Eve.     You 


know  the  '  Adam  and  Eve  '  room,  of  course,  and  all  that  in- 
tricate carving  c*"  the  oak.  About  midway  between  the  figure 
of  Eve  and  the  window  there  is  a  cluster  of  roses,  in  no  way 
remarkable  from  the  other  carved  work  of  the  walls.  But  in 
the  center  of  this  cluster  lies  a  secret  spring,  which  moves 
upon  the  slightest  touch.  A  pressure  of  this  old  man's  feeble 
fingers  sufficed  to  set  it  in  motion. 

*'  A  low,  narrow  door-way  slid  inward;  there  was  a  rush  of 
cold  air  that  extinguished  the  candle,  and  a  black  gulf 
yawned  before  me.     Where  it  led  I  could  not  see. 

*'  He  passed  through,  still  holding  the  extinguished  candle; 
the  door  slid  back,  and — I  was  alone  in  the  sick-room.  Mrs. 
Teifer  slept  and  snored;  General  Trevanion  and  the  will  had 
disappeared  in  the  black  gulf,  and — Qiat  is  all." 

Despite  her  devilish  audacity  and  courage,  the  woman''8 
voice  shook  as  she  finished  her  terrible  recital.  For  the  man 
beside  her,  he  tave  a  gasping  cry  of  utter  horror. 

"  Good  GodP*  he  said.     *'  And  he  never  came  back?** 

"  He  never  came  back,"  breathlessly—"  no.*' 

"And  you  never  told?'* 

"I  never  told." 

Cyril  Trevanion  convulsively  loosened  hia  neck-tie,  with  a 
stranglinij  feeling  in  his  throat. 

"  It  is  enough  to  make  one's  hair  rise!  My  Heaven!  what 
a  heart  of  stone  you  have,  Edith  Ingram.  I  could  not  havo 
done  that." 

"No,  I  dare  sayndt!"  Edith  Ingram  retorted,  scornfully. 
*'  IToa  do&*t  need  to  tell  me  how  far  your  courage  would  oaitj 


19)1 


WHO  wura? 


yon.  I  don't  see  that  I  am  8o  miich  to  blame  in  this  matter. 
It  was  his  own  doing.  He  would  have  died  in  a  day  or  two, 
in  any  case.  I  had  no  hand  in  the  matter.  But  that  is  beside 
our  affair.  What  you  are  to  do  is  to  drive  to  Moukswood  this 
very  night,  seek  out  the  'Adam  and  Eve  '  room,  find  the  secret 
spnnff,  enter,  and  bear  away  the  will." 

"  And  face  that?    Not  for  ten  thousand  willsl'* 

"Coward!  poltroon!  craven!  curl  Oh,  words  are  poor  and 
weak  to  tell  my  contempt  for  you!  Go,  tJien,  white-livered 
upstart  that  you  are,  and  die  a  beggar  as  you  deserve!  I  shall 
marry  Sir  Rupert  Chudleigh;  Sybil  Trevanion  will  marry 
Macgregor,  and  endow  him  with  the  noble  inheritance  that 
your  bass  cowardice  will  not  let  you  grasp.  Go!  and  never  let 
me  see  your  miserable,  craven  face  again  r' 

The  passionate  words  broke  from  her  in  a  torrent.  She 
flung  him  off  in  her  fury,  and  turned  to  go;  but  ho  grasped 
her  arms  aiid  held  her  fast. 

**  Stay,  woman,  or  devil,  and  do  with  me  as  you  like!  I 
will  go,  but  you  shall  go  also.  From  this  hour  I  claim  you, 
by  one  compact  of  guilt.  Together,  as  you  said,  we  will  find 
the  will,  and  before  yonder  August  moon  wanes  you  shall  be 
my  wife.  Fiend  though  you  be,  your  beauty  has  driven  me 
mad.  I  am  ready  to  risk  anything,  to  face  anything,  to  seciire 
you  and  foil  them.     Come!" 

He  drew  her  forcibly  with  him.  She  could  hear  the  con- 
vulsive clicking  of  his  set  teeth.  She  never  said  a  word.  She 
drew  the  long  mantle  she  wore  closer  around  her,  and  followed 
him  like  a  lamb. 

It  was  an  eerie  scene — an  eerie  hour.  The  moon,  angry  and 
red,  rent  her  way  up  through  piles  of  jagged,  black  cloud,  and 
cast  fantastic  shadows  on  the  earth.  The  trees  rocked  in  the 
roaring  gale.  There  in  the  long  avenue  the  very  *'  blackness 
of  darkness  "  reigned.  A  weird  and  ghostly  night  for  the  ter- 
rible errand  of  this  man  and  woman. 

If  Edith  Ingram's  heart  failed  her,  she  was  too  **  plucky  " 
to  show  it;  and  she  had  goaded  the  craven  beside  her  into 
that  reckless  madness  that  stands  cowards  in  good  stead  some- 
times for  courage. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  he  hurried  her  down  the  avenue 
and  into  the  chaise.  He  took  his  seat  beside  her,  seized  the 
reins,  and  drove  away  rapidly  toward  Monkswood  Waste. 

"  You  can  find  the  secret  spring?*''  he  asked,  sullenly,  after 
a  time. 

"  I  can  find  it — ^yes.*' 

**  Do  yott  know  where  the  hidden  room  leadi  tol" 


WHO  wnrsf 


nt 


*•  I  asked  Lady  Lemox  carelessly  once.  She  told  me  those 
secret  passages  did  exist,  she  believed,  in  the  Priory,  and  had 
been  used  often  in  the  troubled  days  of  Henry  and  his  daugh- 
ters, to  conceal  fugitives.  She  knew  nothing  of  their  where- 
abouts, however;  and  during  all  the  search  no  one  thought  of 
that,  or  of  the  possibility  of  the  dying  man  rising  from  his  bed 
and  walking  unaided  and  alone.  The  great  entrance  gates 
will  be  closed;  you  must  drive  round  to  the  west  gate.** 

**  And  pass  the  Retreat,  and  run  the  risk  of  being  seen  by 
that  cursed  Macgregor?'' 

'*  We  run  more  risks  than  that.  There  is  no  alternative. 
By  the  bye,  when  you  find  the  will,  as  we  shall,  of  course,  you 
must  not  reveal  the  fact  for  a  little  while.  On  the  whole,  you 
had  best  not  find  ib  at  all — that  is,  openly.  We  will  see  some 
obscure  drawer  or  escritoire,  and  place  it  in  that;  some  of  your 
workmen  will  stumble  accidentally  on  the  spot,  guided  by 
you,  and  he  shall  bring  the  will  to  light.  Thus  suspicion  will 
DC  avoided ;  and  there  are  many  very  ready  to  suspect  both 
you  and  me." 

**  You  are  a  match  for  the  whole  of  them,"  Cyril  Trevanion 
burst  out,  in  irrepressible  admiration.  *'  I  never  saw  your 
equal.  What  they  say  of  Maria  Theresa  they  ought  to  say  oH 
you:  *  The  heart  of  a  woman,  and  the  intellect  of  a  man.'  '* 

Mrs.  Ingram  smiled  in  the  darkness. 

**  The  heart  of  a  woman.  I  hope  not.  Women  with  that 
inconvenient  appendage  are  very  apt  to  make  idiots  of  them- 
selves, sooner  or  later.  I  suppose  1  am  that  terrible  modern 
innovation,  a  *  strong-minded  woman;'  and  my  wits  being  my 
only  fortune,  I  must  keep  them  sharpened.  Ilist!  not  a  word 
more.  Here  is  the  west  gate,  and  lights  burn  still  in  the 
windows  of  the  Retreat.  Better  have  a  blood-hound  on  our 
track  than  Angus  Macgregor." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A      GHOSTLY     VISIT. 

Tbtb  night  had  grown  more  and  more  overcast  during  their 
drive.  The  wind  had  risen  to  a  shrieking  gale;  the  blood-red 
disk  of  the  moon  had  dropped  entirely  out  of  sight.  Only  one 
bar  of  lurid  red  in  the  east  showed  where  she  had  hid  her  face. 
Torn  and  black,  the  ragged  clouds  rent  their  angry  way  across 
the  sky,  and  the  roar  of  the  seu  down  there  on  the  Sussex 
coast  was  as  the  first  roar  of  a  beast  of  prey.  The  storm  waa 
very  near  now. 

Olinging  to  Cyril  Trevanion's  armj  Mrs.  Ingram  flitted  bf 


m 


'» 


Jl 


m 


XM 


WHO  wnffsf 


■ 


the  Retreat.  He  was  more  afraid,  in  all  probability,  than 
^e;  but  the  feminine  instinct  still  made  the  weak  woman 
cling  to  the  strong  man. 

She  looked  up  at  the  lighted  wihdows  of  that  hidden  her- 
mitage with  a  strange,  strojig  fear.  What  was  he  doing — this 
man  who  held  her  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand — writing,  sleep- 
ing, or  plotting  her  ruin?  Oh,  to  know  who  he  wasi  to  sound 
the  depths  of  his  knowledge  of  the  terrible  pasti  And  that 
other!  She  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  him,  the  poor  serv- 
ant lad  she  had  so  mercilessly  horsewhipped  for  telling  the 
truth!  Yes,  the  truth,  and  the  woman  knew  it.  It  was  her 
own  face  over  again,  with  enough  of  his  dead  father  to  thrill 
her  with  hatred  and  terror  to  the  core  of  her  adumant  heart. 

'*  Let  us  find  the  will — let  me  be  this  craven  upstart's  wife, 
and  share  the  wealth  of  the  Trevanions — and  I  can  defy  them 
both.  I  can  humble  her,  the  queenly  Sybil;  I  can  laugh  in 
his  face,  this  self-reliant  Macgregor;  and  I  need  never  again 
look  upon  that  other.  Let  us  find  the  will,  and  the  triumph 
will  be  ours,  the  victory  won!'' 

It  was  pitch  dark  in  the  Prior's  "Walk,  and  the  roar  of  the 
wind  in  the  trees  was  tretnendous.  As  they  neared  the  man- 
eion,  the  great  bell  of  the  turret-clock  began  pealing  sonor- 
ously the  midnight  hour.  Solemnly  the  clanging  strokes  rang 
out  over  wind  and  storm,  as  though  calling  on  the  dead  prior 
of  Monkswood  and  his  sleeping  Dominicans  to  arise  fromi  their 
graves  and  repel  these  sacrilegious  intruders. 

The  teeth  of  Cyril  Trevauion  absolutely  clattered  in  hifl 
head  with  superstitious  fear. 

*' Afraid,  colonel?"  Mrs.  Ingram  asked;  and  her  low, 
mocking,  silvery  laugh  rang  out.  If  she  were  afraid — and  it 
was  extremely  likely — she  would  have  died  sooner  than  show 
It.  **  It  is  a  grewsome  place  at  midnight,  I  allow.  Hark  to  the 
owls,  how  they  hoot!  It  reminds  one  of  the  weird  prophecy 
old  Hester  croons  after  the  heiress  of  Trevanion: 

"  •  The  bat  slinll  flit,  the  owi  shall  hoot. 
Grim  ruin  Ptiilka  wilh  Imste; 
The  doom  slnili  fall  when  Monkswood  Hall 
Is  changed  to  Monkswood  Wastel" 

"What  doom?"  Cyril  asked. 

**  Goodness  knows.  The  dismal  ditty  is  Hester's  own,  I 
fancy.  Perhaps  she  is  among  the  prophets,  and  the  doom 
will  fall  when  you  find  the  will,  and  take  from  her  every  rood 
of  land,  every  sou  of  money,  and  turn  her  ignoniiniousfy  out" 
of-doors.  This  way,  Cyril ;  we  enter  by  a  little  wmdow  on 
t^  aide  half  hidden  by  the  ivy  and  wild  roses.    How  well  I 


v\ 


rememl 
found  r 
a  l.fe-ti 

Cyril 
hia  dar 
light  sh 
cf,  all 

"  Do 

H 
sash  ea 
apertur 

"Sai^ 

"Ye 
me  helj 

He 
gether, 
echoing 
tomb, 
ghastly 

*'Co] 
periousl 
me  you 

Mrs. 
through 
gulfs  of 
at  last. 

Ontl 

and  gaz 

widow  1 

bed;  th 

there  tl 

to  sleep 

and  sai. 

!  of  rats, 

\  oaken  1 

'  Cyril  I 

Glenga 

peas  01 

«*Cc 

chief. 

you  be 

She 

from  1 

Sressec 
oor  X 


WHO    WINS? 


190 


remember  tht  first  morning  I  came  here,  and  Sybil  Trevanion 
found  me.  Little  more  than  two  months  ago,  and  it  seems 
a  i.fe-time.    Light  your  lantern  now;  this  is  the  place." 

Cyril  Trevanion  struck  a  i'usoc  and  lighted  the  candle  inside 
his  dark  lantern.  As  he  held  it  up,  the  one  feeble  speck  of 
light  ehone  on  the  narrow  casement  Mrs.  Ingram  had  spoken 
cf,  all  overgrown  with  clinging  vines. 

*'  Do  you  enter  first,"  she  said;  "  I  will  hold  the  light." 

H3  was  ashamed  to  refuse — afraid  to  refuse.  He  lifted  the 
sash  easily  enough,  and  squeezed  himself  through  the  narrow 
aperture  with  some  dilliculty. 

"  Safe?"  the  widow  whispered. 

"Yes.  Hand  me  the  lantern  j  and  now  make  haste.  Let 
me  help  you." 

He  drew  her  through,  and  the  man  and  woman  stood  to- 
gether, in  the  stormy  uproar  ot  the  summer  night,  in  the 
echoing  loneliness  of  the  deserted  Priory — the  old  man's  living 
tomb.  The  feeble  light  flickering  on  their  faces  showed  both 
ghastly  with  an  awe  too  great  for  words. 

*'  Come!"  It  was  the  woman  who  spoke,  sharply  and  im- 
periously. "  What  must  be  done  were  best  done  quickly.  Give 
me  your  hand;  hold  up  the  light.     Now,  this  way." 

Mrs.  Ingram  led  him  on.  Through  drafty  corridors, 
through  suites  of  dusty,  deserted  rooms,  up  black,  yawning 
gulfs  of  stair-way,  and  into  the  "  Adam  and  Eve  "  chamber 
at  last. 

On  the  threshold  both  paused,  moved  by  the  same  impulse, 
and  gazed  fearfully  around.  The  room  was  precisely  as  the 
widow  had  seen  it  first.  There  stood  the  vast,  old-fashioned 
bed;  there  the  easy-chair  in  which  she  had  sat  that  fatal  night; 
there  the  dormeuse  whereon  Mrs.  Telfer  had  curled  herself  up 
to  sleep.  A  great  blinking  oavI  flapped  its  wings  in  their  faces 
and  sailed,  hooting,  away  over  their  heads,  and  a  whole  brigade 
of  rats,  holding  night  carnival,  scampered  along  the  polished 
oaken  floor,  startled  by  the  midnight  intruders.  To  say  that 
Cyril  Trevanion's  hair  rose  m'ght  not  be  strictly  true,  for  his 
Glengarry  cap  held  it  down;  but  the  cold  drops  stood  out  like 
peas  on  his  white  face. 

**  Come!"  again  ordered  his  inflexible  little  commander-in- 
chief.  "  Set  down  the  light,  and  when  I  press  the  spring,  do 
you  be  ready  to  enter." 

She  crossed  the  room,  counted  the  clusters  of  carved  roses 
from  the  figure  of  Eve,  found  that  for  which  she  looked, 
pressed  hard  in  the  heart  of  the  center  cluster,  and  a  slidiu|r 
cloor  moved  noiselessly  back  on  its  grooves.    A  cold  rush  o! 


\^ 


1 


M 


196 


WHO    WIlffB? 


(-. 


damp,  noisome  air  swept  out,  and  an  opening,  dark  as  Hades, 
yawned  before  them. 

"  Enter!"  the  woman  eaid,  in  a  fierce,  breathless  whisper. 
"  The  will  that  leaves  you  all — all! — is  within  there.     Go! ' 

But  Cyril  Trevanion  rocoilerl  with  an  awful  face. 

**  And  Ihat  is  there!  Oh,  God!  I  can  not — I  can  not  enter 
there!" 

She  uttered  a  cr}^ — ii  fierce,  passionate  cry  of  rage. 
'      **  Keep  this  back,  then,"  t^lie  excUiimed.     "You  coward' 
you  idiot!  you  disgrace  to  the  name  of  man!    /  will  go!" 

She  seized  the  hinterji,  and  with  set  teeth,  flashing  eyes, 
and  ghastly  face  darted  forwaid  into  the  darkness.  The  pas- 
sage was  long  and  narrow — a  sort  of  oak  cofiin — and,,  at  the 
further  oxtremitv,  a  tiny  room — the  Prior's  Cell.  On  the 
threshold  of  this  hidden  chiunbcr  she  stood  still  a  second  and 
held  up  the  light.  Oak  floor,  oak  walls,  oak  ceiling — black  as 
death;  a  pallet  in  one  corner,  a  liny  tabic,  a  quaint  old  chair 
its  sole  contents.  And  beside  the  table  as/cclcfon  Jif/nre  sat  in 
the  chair,  the  flesh  and  the  garments  gnawed  off  his  bones  by 
the  rats — a  sight  to  haunt  one's  dreams.  And  on  the  table  lay 
the  will  for  which  this  terrible  woman  had  dared  and  done  so 
much. 

She  seized  it  as  a  vulture  swoops  down  on  its  prey.  An- 
other instant  and  she  was  back  beside  Cyril  Trevanion,  with  a 
face  of  such  awful  ghastliness  as  no  words  can  describe. 

"  For  God's  sake,  close  that  horrible  place!  I  feel  as 
though  I  were  going  mad!" 

On  the  table,  among  the  medicine  bottles  and  liquors,  stood 
a  brandy-flask  half  fall  of  strongest  cognac.  She  seized  it, 
raised  it  to  her  lips,  and — set  it  down  empty. 

*'  You  have  got  the  will?"  Cyril  Trevanion  whispered, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

She  flung  it  from  her  in  a  fury  of  fear  and  horror  and  rage. 

"  Take  it,  you  craven  cur!  You  would  sell  your  soul  for  its 
possession,  but  your  cowardly  heart  would  not  let  you  face — ** 

She  stopped,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot  at  the  recollection 
of  the  horrible  sight  she  had  seen. 

"  Let  us  go,"  he  said,  looking  fearfully  about  him;  *'  let  us 
leave  this  awful  charnel-house.     Quick!  come!" 

He  picked  up  the  parchment,  thrust  it  into  his  breast,  and 
half  dragged  her  out  of  the  room.  They  made  their  way 
down-stairs,  along  the  vast  apartments  and  corridors,  and 
reached  in  three  minutes  the  little  open  window. 

Cyril  got  on t  first,  then  a?sisted  the  widow.  He  had  ex- 
tinguish^ the  light,  and  was  in  the  act  of  closing  the  casa- 


WHO  wnrsf 


as  Hadei, 


3  whisper. 
Gol' 

not  enter 


1  coward' 

ling  eyes, 
The  paa- 
nd.  at  the 
On  the 
ecoiid  and 
—black  as 
old  chair 
Hire  sat  in 
i  bones  by 
B  table  lay 
id  done  so 

irey.     An- 
on, with  a 
ibe. 
I  feel  as 

lors,  stood 
3  seized  it, 

svhispered, 

and  rage. 
3011 1  for  its 
•u  face — " 
ecoUection 

i;  *'  let  us 

ii-east,  and 
their  way 
idors,  and 


m 


[e  had  ex 
;  tha  caso- 


mcnt,  when  a  heavy  Htep,  crashing  through  the  undergrowth 
close  at  hand,  made  him  drop  it  and  recoil,  with  a  scream  of 
alarm.  A  second  later,  and,  with  the  speed  of  a  hunted  stag, 
ho  had  bounded  r,\vay  into  the  night,  and  left  the  woman  to 
her  fate. 

An  iron  grasp,  icy  cold,  clutched  hor  wrist  as  she  turned 
wildly  to  lly,  and  a  deep,  stern  voice  out  of  the  darkness 
spoke. 

*'  Come  with  me,"  tiio  deep  voice  said,  **and  let  mo  see 
who  you  are  I" 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

FALLING   INTO  EDEN. 

If  Mme.  Edith  Ingram  wore  a  model  of  all  week-day  virtues 
and  Sunday  attendance  iit  divine  service,  that  godless  gentle* 
man,  ihe  tenant  of  the  Ketreat,  was  not.  AVe  none  of  us  grow 
more  devout  by  wandering;  and  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor,  in  the 
course  of  his  peregrinaiions,  had  fallen  into  the  heathnnish 
habit  of  strolling  through  the  woods  or  along  the  sea-shore, 
with  Tennyson  in  his  pocket,  and  his  eternal  Manilla  between 
his  lips,  listening  dreamily  to  the  forest  murmurs,  and  the 
endless  wash  of  the  Avaves  on  the  shore.  His  church  was  the 
vast,  sunlit  vault  of  heaven;  his  choir,  the  jubilant  summer 
birds;  his  incense,  the  odor  of  rose  and  sweet-brier;  and  his 
sermon,  the  whispers  of  the  mighty  sea.  It  was  heathenish, 
certainly;  and  yet  in  this  worldly  wanderer's  heart  there  was 
an  unuttered  reverence  and  awe  akin  to  that  of  the  red  Indian 
for  his  Great  Spirit — a  veneiation  deeper  and  truer  than  many 
of  those  saintly,  church-going  Pharisees,  with  their  long  pray- 
ers on  the  house-tops,  and  their  hearts  full  of  j^ride  and  guile. 

The  sun  was  setting  in  billows  of  rose  and  translucent  gold 
over  the  boundless  sea,  as  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor,  with  his  woli' 
hound  at  his  heels,  and  "  In  Meinoriam  "  open  in  his  hand,  ( 
strolled  along  the  shingly  beach. 

Far  and  faint,  beyond  the  monastic  woods  of  Cyril  Trevan* 
ion's  home,  came  the  sweet  chiming  of  the  Sunday  bells.  The 
little  church,  just  outside  the  gates  of  Monkswood,  was  fa- 
mous for  the  sweetness  of  its  bells.  It  had  been  an  addition  to 
the  monastery  in  the  bv-gone  time,  and  the  "  Adeste  Fidelia/' 
and  "  Te  Deum  Laadamus  "  chimed  forth  as  sweetly  now  as  . 
in  those  far-otf  days.  The  white-robed  Dominicans  slept 
under  the  turf,  anf  this  Sabbath  evening  there  floated  to  the 
lazy  listener  the  unutterable  sweetness  of  the  "  Ave  Maria 


Stella,"  as  he  lay  on  the  tranquil  shore.    In  fancy  he  might 


A-oJ 


. 


''^:^- 


198 


WHO   WINS? 


have  heard  those  cowled  and  hooded  friars  chanting  .he  momn* 
ful  tenderness  ol  their  vct^pcr  lay: 

••  Grnlle  Stnr  of  Ocean, 
Porfiil  of  I  he  t*ky, 
Ever  VirffitiMoHicr 
Of  Ihc  Lord  Most  Iligli!" 

He  inujlif,  I  say,  but  he  did  not.  For  all  his  dreams,  all  his 
thoughts,  were  of  an  object  more  fair  than  all  the  austere 
monks  dead  and  gone,  and,  in  his  sight,  no  less  holy — Miss 
Bybil  Trevanion.  And  looking  up,  at  tua  sudden  bark  of  his 
dog,  he  saw  her.  There,  on  the  cliiV,  twenty  feet  over  his 
head,  bathed  in  the  rosy  light  of  the  setting  sun,  stood  the 
lovely  heiress  of  Trevanion.  Her  back  was  toward  him,  as  she 
stood  gazing  on  the  glory  of  the  west,  her  heart  in  her  eyes; 
but  there  was  no  niistakuig  that  tail,  slender  figure,  with  its 
indescribable  high-bred  air,  the  llouting  dark  ringlets,  the 
haughty  poise  of  the  noble  and  lovely  head. 

Angus  Macgrcgor  ro.-e  to  his  feet,  a  startled  exclamation 
dying  upon  his  lips.  For  the  lofty  ciilf  upon  whieh  she  stood 
ran  out  in  a  little  grassy  plateau,  too  frail  to  bear  the  weight 
of  the  little  lion  dog  frisking  about.  One  step  further  out, 
and — the  strong  man  turned  white  as  he  thought  of  the  terri- 
ble fall  on  those  black,  merciless  crags. 

The  little  lion  dog  dancing  about,  all  his  silver  bells  a- 
jingle,  caught  sight  of  the  big  Livonian  below,  and  set  up  a 
tiny  yelp  of  defiance.  His  mistress  turned  round,  glanced 
downward,  and  started  as  she  beheld  Maegregor. 

"Miss  Trevanion — Sybil!  for  God's  sake,  take  carel  Go 
back,  for  pity's  sake!    Oh,  great  Heaven  I" 

He  leaped  up  the  rocks  like  a  madman,  for,  startled  and 
not  understanding,  she  had  drawn  nearer  the  treacherous 
edge.  The  frai!  bed  of  turf  crumbled  beneath  her,  and  she 
came  flying  downward  to  certain  death. 

Certain  death,  but  for  Maegregor.  Half-way  up,  he  had 
twined  his  left  arm  around  a  strong  sapling,  set  his  teeth, 
braced  himself,  and  caught  the  falling  form  in  his  mighty 
grasp.  The  sturdy  sapling  creaked  and  bent,  he  swayed  him- 
self from  the  shock;  but  he  held  her  as  in  a  vise,  and  for  the 
second  time  he  had  saved  the  life  of  her  he  loved. 

"Thank  GodI''  he  said,  releasing  his  hold.  "A  little 
more,  and —  Don't  look  so  white,  and  don't  scream.  You 
ai*e  safe  now." 

She  looked  up — pale,  frightened,  bewildered — then  down. 
In  one  glance  she  saw  what  the  danger  had  been,  and  how  she 
bad  been  saved.    She  caught  her  breath  in  a  gaspmg  sob. 


I 


WHO   WIN8V 


199 


moum* 


3,  all  his 
austere 
l,y — Mi  so 
k  of  his 
over  his 
tood  the 
11,  as  sho 
her  eyes; 
with  its 
;lets,  the 

lamation 
she  stood 
le  weight 
ther  out, 
the  terri- 

bells  a- 
set  up  a 
glanced 

ire  I     Go 

:'tled  and 
;acherous 
t  and  she 

,  he  had 
Ins  teeth, 
s  mighty 
,yed  him- 
d  for  the 


■A 

[U. 


little 
You 


in  down, 
I  how  she 
sob. 


"But  for  you,"  she  said,  "but  for  you,  what  would  have 
become  of  me?  And  it  is  the  second  time  you  have  saved  my 
.ife.  Oh,  Mr.  Macgregor,  what  shall  I  say  to  you?  how  shall 
I  thank  you?" 

The  eloquent  violet  eyes  looked  up  at  him  full  of  impas- 
sioned tears,  the  white  hands  rlaspcd  in  irresistible  appeal.  It 
was  unutterably  sweet  to  owe  hor  life  to  him. 

Angus  Macgregor's  dark  face  glowed;  his  great  black  cyeiB 
h'ghted  vividly  up. 

"Shall  1  tell  yon?"  he  said,  taking  both  white  hands  be- 
tween his  own.  "  By  silence,  and — by  letting  me  say  to  you 
how  I  love  you." 

Up,  over  the  pearly  cheek  and  brow,  the  rosy  light  flew, 
and  tho  exquisite  face  drooped  lower  and  lower,  and  the 
clasped  hands  were  not  withdrawn.  The  haughty,  patrician 
heiress  stood  blushing  and  drooping  before  this  tall,  dark 
stranger,  in  the  shabby  shooting-jacket,  one  of  the  toilers  of 
the  earth,  all  her  priile  of  birth,  and  blood,  and  beauty  gone. 

"  Sybil,  my  love!  my  darling!  You  listen;  you  do  not  re- 
buke my  mad  presumption.  Is  it  only  your  gratitude?  or— 
oh,  my  darling,  is  it  love?" 

She  lifted  the  roseate  face,  a  smile  dawning  on  the  fluttering 
lips.  The  captive  hands  were  withdrawn  from  his,  then  given 
suddenly  back.  It  was  Sybil's  answer;  and,  as  he  caught  her 
hi  a  transport  of  love  and  joy  to  his  heart,  the  fair  face  hid  its 
maiden  blushes  on  the  collar  of  the  shabby  shooting-jacket. 
La  Princesse  laid  down  her  crown  and  her  scepter  at  the  feet 
of  her  master  and  lord. 

And  the  August  sun  dropped  lower  and  lower,  and  sunk,  in 
an  oriflamme  of  crimson  glory,  out  of  sight.  And  the  silvery 
moon  sailed  up,  and  the  crystal  stars  came  out,  and  the  plaint- 
ive evening  wind  arose,  and  Doctor  Faustus,  down  on  the 
sands,  stretched  himself  out  at  his  shabby  length,  and  regarded 
these  childish  proceedings  of  his  grave  master  with  cynical 
eye,  and  the  impertinent  yelping  of  the  frisky  little  lion  dog 
with  grand,  majestic  contempt. 

They  came  down  from  the  crags — they  had  taken  an  airy 
perch  for  this  tender  scene — with  the  radiant  faces  Adam  and 
Eve  may  have  worn  that  first  day  in  Eden. 

"  And  you  love  me,  Sybil?"  Macgregor  was  ""ying,  gazing 
upon  the  lovely,  blushing  face  with  dark  eyoo  of  rapture. 
*'  You,  my  peerless  darling,  can  stoop  to  me,  weather-beaten, 
old,  poor,  and — " 

The  taper  fingers  went  up  and  covered  the  bearded  lips. 

*''  That  will  do,  sir.    I  won't  have  any  one  I  honor  with  xaj 


\ 


km 


SKK) 


wno  wnrsf 


.  k ': 


n' 


prcfarence  called  names.  Old,  weather-beaten,  indeed!  Think 
better  of  my  taste,  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor.  Poor  I  what  do  I 
cai'e  for  your  poverty?  There  is  nr-ouay  enough,  if  that  be  all; 
and  what  does  it  matter  which  of  us  has  it?" 

Macgregor  smiled  at  this  impetuous  feminine  logic. 

"  Eo  you  know  what  they  will  say,  Sybil?  That  the  im- 
poverished penny-a-liner  is  a  fortune-hunter." 

*'  Let  them!''  Miss  Trevanion  cried,  with  fla:-;hing  eyes  and 
kindling  cheeks.  "  Only  they  had  best  not  say  it  in  my  hear- 
ing. Oh,  Angus,  it  is  you  who  stoop,  not  1 — you,  with  your 
god-like  intellect,  your  matchless  strength  and  daring — you, 
whom  a  queen  might  be  proud  to  wed — you,  who  have  saved 
my  life  twice.     Oh,  Angus!" 

And  here  words  failed  this  3'oulhful  enthusiast,  in  lov^  for 
the  first  time;  but  she  lifted  one  of  Macgregor's  brown  handa 
and  kissed  it  passionately,  with  defiant  tears  standing  in  the 
itormy  blue  eyes. 

^nd  again  Macgregor  laughed. 

**  Much  obliged,"  he  said.  "You  'do  me  proud,'  Miss 
Trevanion.  God-like  intellect,  quotha!  Faith!  i  wish  those 
merciless  critics,  who  cut  me  up  like  mince-meat  every  quar- 
ter, agreed  with  you.  And  as  for  weddiiig  a  queen,  Sybil, 
with  every  reverence  for  her  most  gracious  and  widowed  maj- 
esty, I  had  much  rather  wed  you.  Oh,  my  love,  I  can  not 
realize  my  bliss!  And  yet  I  could  not — no,  I  could  not — have 
lost  you  and  lived!" 

And  then,  of  course,  Mr.  Macgregor  emphasized  his  declara- 
tion by  an  ardent  embrace. 

"  Don't!"  said  Sybil.  "  See,  even  Doctor  Faustus  expresses 
his  disapprobation  of  such  proceedings  by  growling  grimly. 
And  as  for  Sylphide,  she  will  bark  herself  into  a  tit.  Pray 
take  me  home.  It  grows  late,  and  I  want  my  dinner.  You 
will  dine  with  us,  of  course?" 

**  Most  certainly.  My  paradise  is  by  your  side.  And  I  may 
tell  mamma,  may  I?" 

*  Oh,  pray,  not  yet,"  shrinking  sensitively.  "  There  will 
be  cuch  a — " 

**  Scene?  Yes,  I  dare  say,"  Macgregor  observed,  coolly, 
"  it  is  not  the  match  she  might  reasonably  have  looked  forward 
to  for  her  beautiful  daughter.  And,  Sybil,  have  you  no 
doubts?  Think,  my  own  dearest,  how  little  you  know  of  me." 

**  I  love  you!"  Sybil  answered,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"  I  may  have  been  the  greatest  villain  on  earth — a  low- 
bom,  unprincipled  adventurer.  Can  you  risk  so  much? 
Pftase«  Syoil,  and  think." 


, 


, 


WHO  wi2srsP 


>fiA 


f 


"Oh,  I'nshl"  Sybil  passionately  cried.  "You  have  made 
me  love  you?  don't  ma^o  me  doubt  yoa.  You  are  not  un- 
principled; you  are  net  lovr-born.  You  are  a  gentleman,  and 
my  equal — my  superior  in  all  but  the  dross  of  wealth.  I 
dou't  asik  to  know  your  past,  if  you  choose  to  hide  it;  but— 
Oh,  Angus,"  with  a  sudden  vehement  cry,  "  tell  me  thcro  is 
nothing  in  that  past  that  Sybil  Trevaniou  might  not  hearl" 

lie  lil'icd  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  reverently  kissed  it. 

"  Nothing,'^  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  eyes  whose  truth 
there  was  no  doubting — "  nothing,  b(>  help  we  Heaven!  Before 
our  wedding-day  duwns,  mj'^  own  hearfs  darling,  my  life  shall 
be  laid  bare  to  you.  Much  of  folly,  much  of  madness,  much 
of  reckless  wrong-doing,  there  has  been,  bat  nothing  which  X 
may  not  tell  you,  my  spotless  bride.  I  swear  it!" 
k  And  then,  arm  in  :^rm,  through  the  silvery  summer  moon- 
light, the  lovers  walked  homeward,  the  nightingales  jug-jug- 
ging around  them,  and  the  holy  Sabbath  hush  over  all. 

And  Eden  had  opened  to  another  soji  and  daughter  of  Evel 


i. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

FACE  TO  FACE. 

*'  SoERY  you  can't  come,  old  fellow;  and  Godolphin  and 
tne  rest  of  'em  will  be  sorrier.  Gaunt  swears  you're  the 
finest  fellow  in  the  county,  and  Godolphin  says  it's  a  thou- 
sand pities  you're  onJ//  an  author  and  a  civilian.  Pity  you  cut 
the  service,  eh?  Belter  come,  Maegregor.  You  owe  Lascelles 
his  revenge  at  vingt-tt-iin.  '' 

Charley  Lemox  said  this  drawing  on  his  buckskin  riding- 
gloves,  as  he  sauntered  out  of  the  Ketreat,  in  the  dusk  of  the 
Bummer  evening,  followed  by  Maegregor. 

"Can't  possibly,"  the  author  said.  '^  Must  stick  to  the 
*  shop '  to-night.  There's  a  biographical  sketch  of  King 
Cheops  to  wrTte;  the  first  two  chapters  of  '  The  Belle  of  the 
Billows  '  to  dash  off;  and  the  Brigand  of  the  Bosphorus  to  be 
guillotined,  as  he  deserves,  and  his  victim,  the  lovely  and 
much-injured  Muuemoifcolle  Pasdebasque,  to  marry  the  amia- 
ble young  Russian  prince.  Lascelles'  little  suppers  are  very 
jolly  afi'airs,  I  know;  but  business,  my  lad — business  before 
pleasure." 

**  Oh,  hang  business!  Lascelles  will  look  as  black  as  ft 
thunder-cloud,  or  as  yonder  sky.  And,  speaking  of  that,  1 
Bhall  get  a  wel  jp-cket  if  I  stay  much  longer.  There's  a  storm 
brewing.     Since  you  won't  ccnic,  old  boy,  rale!" 

Charley  leisurely  mounted  Tarn  O'Shaut^r,  and  leisurelj 


...um 


m 


tTHO   WIKS? 


If 


;- 


f: 


rode  off.  Macgregor  Kcgered  half  an  hour  or  more,  while  thd 
overcast  evening  blackened  down,  leaning  on  his  lovf  wicket, 
euioking  his  big,  bJack  meerschaum,  looking  at  the  scudding 
clouds  and  rocking  trees,  and  thinking  of  Sybil— of  Sybil,  in- 
stead of  King  Cheops,  "  The  Belle  of  the  Billows,"  or  "  The 
Brigand  of  the  Bosphorus,'*  by  whom  he  earned  his  daily 
bread. 

Four-and -twenty  hours  sped  since  that  blissful  moment 
when  the  daughter  of  many  Trevanions  had  laid  her  hand  in 
his  and  given  herself  to  him  forever;  and  the  radiance  of  Mac- 
gregor's  stern,  brown  face,  as  seen  through  clouds  of  Caven- 
d'sh,  wa??  something  altogether  indescribable. 

The  vision  of  his  servant,  Joe,  lumbering  about  the  house, 
and  blustering  lii^e  the  god  of  the  wind,  aroused  him,  from 
his  dream  of  delight,  to  the  fact  that  time  wore  apace,  and 
that  two  dozen  sheets  of  foolscap  paper  must  be  covered  with 
"thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn  "  in  time  for 
the  early  London  mail. 

**  Secure  the  windows  and  bolt  the  doors,  Joe,"  his  master 
said;  "  make  all  secure  and  go  to  roost.  There's  a  stornx 
brewing  " 

He  walked  into  the  house,  flung  off  hh  coat,  donned  a  dress- 
ing-gown of  purple  velvet — old,  paint-smeare*',  but  pictur- 
esque- Sllcd  his  meerschaum  afresh,  produced  his  MS.,  and 
Bet  to  work.  The  radiant  vision  of  Sybil  retreated  to  the  back- 
ground for  the  present,  while  the  penny-a-iiner  showed  up 
Cheops  to  posterity,  guillotined  the  brigand^  and  married  *he 
belle.  The  hours  wore  on  while  the  industrious  pen-scraper 
ecraped  over  the  paper;  the  author  smoked,  and  drank  a 
black  decoction  of  strong  tea,  and  it  was  almost  midnight  be- 
fore the  last  sheet  of  damp  MS.  was  flung  on  the  floor  among 
its  fellows. 

"Allah  be  \)YaAS(':'i,  that's  done!"  the  writer  said,  with  a 
sigh  of  mingled  relief  and  weariness.  "lean  send  all  the 
publishers  and  printers  this  side  the  Styx  to  ihe  dickens  for  a 
week  to  come,  at  least.  How  goes  the  night,  I  wonder ?  1*11 
step  out  and  see  the  storm  break.  Charley's  in  for  a  drench- 
mg  coming  home,  and  the  lad's  as  afraid  of  water  as  a  cat." 

He  strolled  out.  The  night  had  shut  down  black  and  star- 
less; but  thai  blood-red  moon,  which  lighte'^.  the  widow  and 
her  companion  on  their  ghastly  errand,  gleamed  fierce  and 
wrathful  still  through  the  inky  pall.  The  surging  of  the  galo 
in  the  park  was  something  tremendous,  and  one  or  two  bi^ 
drops,  precursors  of  the  tempest  at  hand,  fell  haaviJy  as  he 
opened  the  wicket  and  passed  out. 


(etb6 
icket, 
dding 
il,  in- 
*The 
daily 

>ment 

md  in 

Mao 

iaven- 


WHO   W1K8? 


SOS 


UTj 


He  turned  into  the  Prior's  Walk  as  usual.  The  darknoM 
of  Erebus  reigaed;  the  trees  writhed  and  groaned  in  travail 
about  him;  the  nis:ht  and  storm,  down  there  in  the  woodland, 
were  sublime.      He  walked  on,  fascinated   by  the  terrible 

frandeur  of  the  convulsed  elements,  until,  as  he  neared  the 
'riory,  he  stopped.     For  there,  along  the  deserted  rooms,  he 
caught  the  swift  glancing  of  a  light. 

A  light  at  midnight  in  the  haunted  Priory.  What  did  it 
mean?  Had  the  dead  Dominicans  arisen  from  their  graves  to 
chant  matins  as  of  yore?  Was  it  the  ghostly  prior  going  his 
unearthly  rounds,  or  was  it  something  human,  and  something 
worse,  exploring  the  old  manor  at  this  unchristian  hour? 

"  I'll  see,  by  George!"  cried  Macgregor,  striding  through 
the  wet  grass.  *'  *  Be  he  living  or  be  he  dead,'  as  the  children 
say  in  the  nursery  legend,  I'll  ascertain  what  he's  doing  here." 

He  followed  the  direction  of  the  light,  and  reached  the  open 
window.  His  first  impulse  v.  as  to  enter  and  follow;  but,  ere 
he  could  act  upon  it,  he  saw  the  light  returning,  and  heard 
the  rapid  tread  of  footsteps  approaching.  Hi  drew  back  into 
the  shadow  of  a  projecting  buttress  and  waited.  A  figure 
emerged — then  another — then  the  first  turned  to  close  the 
window.  Macgregor  plunged  forward;  in  that  moment  the 
man  turned  from  the  window  with  a  cry  of  alarm,  and  leaped 
awuy  into  the  darkness. 

The  second  essayed  to  follow,  but  the  muscular  grip  of  her 
captor  held  her  powerless. 

**  Come  with  me,''  Macgregor  said,  coolly,  "  and  let  me 
see  who  you  are." 

"  Let  me  go!"  a  passionate  voice,  shrill  and  piercing, 
cried;  *'  let  me  go!"  struggling  frantically;  *'  let  me  go!  let 
me  go!" 

*'  A  woman,  by  all  that's  astounding!  Whew!"  Macereg- 
or's  shrill  whistle  cut  the  air  like  a  knife;  "and  I  ought  to 
know  that  voice.     I'll  wager  a  guinea  it's  Mrs.  Ingram." 

*'Let  me  go!"     -    -       -      - 
madly;  "  let  me  go, 

*'  That  remains  to  be  seen.  I'll  let  you  go  presently,  when 
I've  had  a  little  talk  with  you.  Calm  yourself,  Madame  In- 
gram— cease  your  struggles;  I  won't  let  you  go  until  I  find 
out  what  has  brought  you  all  the  way  from  Chudleigh  Chase 
in  the  *  dead  waste  and  middle  of  the  night.'  Keep  still — dol 
and  come  (his  way." 

She  ceased  her  struggles  all  at  once.  She  knew  who  waa 
hev  caftor^  and  let  him  lead  her  sullenly.    Fate  was  against 


shrieked    Mrs.    Ingram,   still   strugglinff 
),  I  tell  you!    I  have  done  nothing  wrong." 


S04 


WHO    WIKS 


her^  and  the  charming  little  widow  was  a  fatalist.  Kismiit 
It  was  written. 

She  followed  him  down  the  Prior's  "Walk  and  into  the  houie, 
struggling  no  more. 

The  big  drops,  falling  swiftly  and  more  swiftly  from  the 
first,  drenched  them  thoroughly  before  they  reached  the  Re- 
treat. The  forked  lightning  leajDed  across  the  sky;  the  thunder 
orashed  deafeningly  over  their  heads;  the  wind  howled;  the 
rain  fell  in  torrents.  The  "  elemental  uproar  "  was  in  full 
blast. 

Mrs.  Ingram,  afraid  of  nothing  else  in  the  heavens  above, 
or  the  earth  beneath,  was  mortally  afraid  of  lightning.  She 
gave  a  little  gasp  of  horror,  as  the  red  forks  of  fiarae  shot 
along  the  black  sky  lighting  up  with  its  lurid  glare  the  dismal 
woods. 

She  clung  involuntarily  to  the  arm  of  Macgregor,  losing  all 
dread  of  him  in  her  greater  dread  of  the  storm. 

**  You  remind  me  of  a  certain  conundrum,  Mrs.  Ingram," 
Macgregor  said,  grimly.  ''  What  is  conscience?  *  Something 
a  guilty  man  feels  every  time  it  lightens.'  Conscience  makes 
cowards  of  us  all.  I  dare  say  you  have  good  reason  to  be 
afraid.  Does  poor  Joe  Dawson's  dead  face  ever  rise  out  of  the 
red  glare  to  confront  you?" 

He  could  feel  her  shuddering  through  all  her  frame  as  he 
hurried  her  into  the  house.  For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Ingram 
stood  within  the  Retreat,  and  the  lamp-light,  falling  upon  her, 
showed  her  wet,  bedraggled,  ghastly,  white — rouge,  and 
pearl-powder,  and  belladonna,  and  moire,  and  jewels  gone — a 
piteous  object  indeed. 

Macgregor  stood  and  looked  at  her — a  smile  on  his  face. 
Sha  tried  to  return  that  look  with  her  old  effrontery;  but  she 
was  not  herself  to-night.  The  ^rhastly  ordeal  she  had  gone 
through,  the  ghastly  sight  she  had  seen,  the  intense  fear  she 
had  of  the  lambent  lightning,  all  conspired  to  unnerve  her. 

She  cowered  before  this  man  in  abject  terror,  and  her  teeth 
ihattered  audibly  in  her  head. 

He  crossed  over-  leaned  his  arm  on  the  mantel,  and  stood 
looking  down  on  her,  as  a  ro^^al  stag  might  look  on  a  trem- 
bling kitten.  She  tried  to  meet  those  stern,  triumphant,  mer- 
ciless eyes,  but  her  own  fell  in  pitiable  dread. 

"Spare  me!"  she  murmured,  involuntarily.  "Oh,  Mr. 
Macffregorl  I  have  done  nothing  wrong." 

**  No?  Then,  what  brought  you  and  Cyril  Trevanion  to 
Moukswood  at  tliis  unholy  hour  of  night?  To  find  the  lost 
mil,  was  it  not?" 


?■."; 


ti 


WHO    WI»»? 


908 


m, 

Jthe 

fder  i 
I  the  I 
lull 


all 


f> 


The  clever  shaft,  shot  at  random,  sped  home.  She  looked 
Rt  him  with  wild,  dilated  eyes  and  parted  lipa. 

**  Miss  Trevanion  was  right,  then,  from  the  first.  You  did 
know  the  whereabouts  of  the  will,  and— the  general?  Did 
you  murder  him,  Mrs.  Dawson,  as  you  did  your  husband?*' 

She  made  no  reply.  Her  chattering  teeth,  her  trembllDg 
form,  her  scared  eyes,  answered  for  her. 

"  Strange,  Mrs.  Ingram,"  Macgregor  went  on,  "  you  did 
not  do  ^his  sooner.  The  fellow  who  calls  himself  Cyril  Tre- 
vanion— who  is  the  galley-slave  I  saw  at  the  Bagne  of  Toulon 
—would  have  married  you  weeks  ago;  and  you  might  havo 
turned  Miss  Trevanion  out,  and  reigned  Lady  Paramount  in 
her  stead.  It  is  rather  late  in  the  day  now.  The  galley-slave 
and  the  murderess  must  give  place  to  the  rightful  heir — to 
Cyril  Trevanion  himself  I" 

"  It  is  false,  Angus  Macgregor!"  the  little  widow  screamed, 
in  shrill  affright.  "  Cyril  Trevanion  is  dead.  He  went  down 
with  the  burning  ship  in  the  middle  of  the  Pacific." 

"He  did?i'0^/  Cyril  Trevanion  lives,  and  will  claim  his 
own  as  sure  as  Heaven  is  above  us.  He  did  not  go  down  with 
the  burning  ship;  he  clung  to  a  spar,  and  three  days  after  was 
picked  up  by  a  homeward-bound  vessel.  He  returned  to 
England  to  find  a  usurper  in  his  place — to  see  the  woman  who 
duped  him,  fifteen  years  before,  the  honored  guest  of  his 
home.  He  stood  still  and  watched  jLhem.  He  possessed  a 
grim  sense  of  humor,  and  the  farce  amused  him.  But  now 
the  play  is  played  out,  the  battle  is  fought,  the  victory  won. 
Cyril  Trevanion  comes  to  claim  his  own.  The  lost  will,  which 
you  have  so  kindly  found  for  him  to-night,  will  give  him  all; 
and  the  galley-slave  shall  go  back  to  his  living  tomb,  and  the 
murderess  of  Joe  Dawson  and  General  Trevanion  will  go  to 
the.  Speckhaven  jail  and  stand  her  trial  for  life.  CyrilTTre- 
Yanion  lives,  and  woe  to  you.  Rose  Dawson,  when  ho  corneal" 

"I  don't  believe  it!  I  zro7i't  believe  it!"  the  wretched 
7?-oman  wildly  screamed.  "  It  is  a  foul  and  baseless  liel  I 
will  never  believe  it,  unless  I  see  Cyril  Trevanion  alive!" 

."  See  him,  then!"  cried  Angus  Macgregor,  starting  up,  an 
inexplicable  change  coming  over  face  and  voice.  **  Look  at 
me  well — Rose  Dawson — Rose  Adair — Edith  Ingram.  lam 
Cyril  Trevanion  I'*  

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A      SHOT     II>r     THE     DARK. 

Mrs.  Ingram  sat  by  her  chamber  window,  gazing  out  at 
that  pleasant  perspective  of  "/^  beech-wood  where  the  **€d 


f! 


tU 


.\-    »  , 


206 


WHO   WIK8? 


deer  trooped— velvet  glades,  marble  terraces,  rose-wreathed, 
and  sunlit  luwn.  A  cloudless  morning  of  sunshine  and  soft 
sea-breezes  had  followed  that  wild  tempest  of  rain  and  light- 
ning, and  the  widow's  face  looked  terrioly  haggard  and  worn 
and  chalky  in  its  pitiless  brightness. 

The  turret  clock  was  tolling  nine  as  the  widow  sat  there 
alone,  gazing  out  upon  that  lair  landscape,  with  a  hot  mist 
over  the  dai'k  eyes,  in  which  all  things  really  swam.  The 
house  was  very  still;  the  servants  were  busy  in  their  own  do- 
main, and  Gwendoline  had  not  yet  arisen.  Very  early  that 
morning  the  widow  had  returned  to  Chudleigh  Chase,  and  had 
flitted  in  and  up  to  her  apartment  unobserved.  Wearied  out, 
she  sunk  down  by  the  window,  and  though  hours  had  gone, 
she  had  never  stirred  since. 

The  worst  had  come — the  worst  that  could  possibly  happen. 
Cyril  Trevanion  was  alive,  and  /tere!  She  had  known  him 
from  the  moment  he  spoke — she  only  wondered  now  how  she 
could  have  been  so  utterly  blind  as  not  to  know  him  from  the 
first.  He  was  here  to  claim  his  own,  to  triumph  over  her,  to 
crush  her  beneath  his  heel.  The  mercy  she  had  shown  to  him, 
to  her  dead  husband,  to  her  living  son,  to  his  father,  he  would 
show  her;  he  had  told  her  so,  with  a  face  stern  and  set  as 
doom.  All  her  fair  prospects,  so  near  their  fruition,  melted 
away  in  thin  air;  nothing  remained  but  imprisonment  or 
transportation  for  life.  Yes,  one  chance  remained — one  terri- 
ble alternative.  No  one  knew,  as  yet — no  one  would  know 
until  Sir  Kupert's  return  on  the  morrow.  He  had  said  so. 
What  if  he  were  to  die  lo-ni()ht9 

Her  "ghastly  face  turned  dark  red  as  the  devilish  thought 
flashed  through  her  mind.  It  was  one  chance — the  only  one. 
She  would  never  be  suspected;  all  might  still  go  well.  She 
might  marry  the  man  the  world  as  yet  thought  General  Tre- 
vanion's  son;  she  might  leave  England,  and  reign  like  a  prin- 
cess abroad.  She  might  triumph  over  the  woman  she  hated; 
lihs  victory  might  be  hers,  after  all.  And  if  the  worst  came— 
why,  she  could  hardly  be  worse  off,  caught  "  red-handed,** 
than  she  was  now. 

She  got  up  and  paced  the  floor,  her  black  brows  bent  over 
her  gleaming  eyes,  her  lips  set  in  a  steely  line.  Once  she 
thought  of  her  lover;  he  might  rid  her  of  their  enemy,  if  he 
had  but  half  the  spirit  of  a  man.  But  he  had  not,  and  she 
scouted  the  idea  at  once. 

The  busy  brain  worked.  In  half  an  hour  her  rapid  plaa 
was  formed.  She  sat  down  and  scrawled  a  line  to  Miss  Chad* 
liBJgh. 


«•  Deab 

letter  f  roii 
ill.  Ilea 
weeV.  B 
and  Color 
and  belie'i 


She  le 

maid;  an 

the  girl 

was  very 

and  noise 

in  her  pc 

her  dresE 

years  ag( 

Mrs.  I 

only  to  £ 

Here  \ 

her  way 

afternoo] 

streets  a 

wood  Pr 

Agai 

all  the  1 

self  in  t 

And 

only  a 

green  b 

woman 

remors 

of  fail 

nothin 

less  h( 

his  sto 

Asl 

by  one 

slowly 

It\ 

■up,  d 

stole ' 

*'I 

mutti 

writi] 

come 


WHO   WINS? 


SO? 


ire 
list 
(he 

lat 

id 


*•  Deae  Gwendoline, — Last  evening's  mail  brought  me  a 
letter  from  a  friend  in  London,  telling  me  she  was  dangerously 
ill.  I  leave  l3y  the  ]1:50  train,  and  will  probably  be  absent  a 
week.  Be  kii  d  enough  to  inform  your  pai)a  when  he  returns, 
and  Colonel  Trevauion,  should  he  call.  Attend  to  your  studies, 
and  believe  me, 

"  Affectionately  yours,       Edith  Ingram." 

She  left  the  house,  giving  this  note  to  Miss  Chudleigh's 
maid;  and  so  well  had  the  cosmetiques  done  their  work  that 
the  girl  saw  nothing  unusual  in  the  widow's  look  or  tone.  She 
was  very  simply  dressed  in  a  traveling  suit  of  dark  gray,  soft 
and  noiseless  of  texture,  and  with  a  thick  mask  of  black  lace 
in  her  pocket,  ready  for  use.  And  thrust  into  the  bosom  of 
her  dress  was  a  loaded  pistol — a  silver-mounted  little  toy,  that 
years  ago  had  been  the  property  of  Captain  Hawksley. 

Mrs.  Ingram  did  leave  Speckhaven  by  the  11:50  train — ^but 
only  to  alight  at  the  first  statbii,  three  miles  otf. 

Here  she  donned  the  black  lace  mask,  and  very  slowly  made 
her  way  back  to  the  town.  So  slov  ly  did  she  walk  that  the 
afternoon  sun  was  setting  as  she  glided,  through  the  back 
streets  and  quiet  lanes,  into  the  high-road  which  led  to  Monks- 
wood  Priory. 

A  gap  somewhere  in  the  boundary  wall — going  to  ruin  like 
all  the  rest — admitted  her,  and  she  flitted  away,  and  lost  her- 
self in  the  darkness  of  interlaced  woodland. 
I  And  the  summer  stars  came  out,  and  the  waning  moon — 

only  a  slender  silver  sickle  now — glanced  down  through  the 
green  boughs  into  the  dark  heart  of  the  forest,  where  this  lost 
woman  crouched  like  a  tigress  in  a  jungle.  T^here  was  no 
remorse  in  her  heart,  and  no  dread — unless,  indeed,  the  dread 
of  failure.  A  whole  hecatomb  of  lives  would  have  been  as 
nothing  to  her,  standing  in  the  way  of  her  ambition,  much 
Jess  her  liberty  and  life.  Angus  Macgregor  must  never  tell 
his  story  or  hers;  he  must  die  to-night,  and  make  no  sign. 

As  the  night  wore  on  toward  midnight  the  sky  clouded.  One 
by  one  the  stars  sunk  in  the  darkness,  and  were  quenched; 
dowly  the  moon  hid  its  face  behind  the  gathering  clouds. 

It  was  black  as  Hades  there  where  she  crouched.  She  got 
up,  drew  forth  the  loaded  pistol — the  death-dealing  toy — and 
stole  out  from  her  covert. 

**  He  walks  every  night,  Gwendoline  has  told  me,"  §he 
muttered,  "  up  and  down  the  Prior's  Walk,  aftv3r  he  ceases 
writing.  It  is  close  upon  midnight  now.  I  will  watch  him 
come  out" 


108 


iTHo  wnreF 


She  stole  away  through  the  trees,  and  sped  rapidly  In  thi 
darkness  toward  the  Retreat.  The  giant  trees  across  the  littla 
path  afforded  safe  shelter.  All  unseen  she  could  watch  the 
cottage  and  its  tenant. 

The  lower  windows  were  lighted  and  the  curtains  undrawn. 
There,  plainly  before  her,  she  saw  him  sitting  at  the  table, 
writing  rapidly.  Once,  twice,  three  times,  she  raised  the  pistol 
to  fire,  and  each  time  her  hand  shook,  and  the  weapon  fell  by 
her  side. 

"  Not  there!"  she  thought,  the  cold  dew  standing  en  her 
forehead.  "  I  will  wait  till  he  comes  out.  It  will  be  safer, 
and — I  will  not  see  him  when  he  falls." 

Shfe  stood  and  waited.  And,  all  unconscious  of  his  impend- 
ing doom — of  the  "  Watcher  on  the  Threshold  " — the  author 
wrote  on  until  the  midnight  hour  struck.  He  never  worked 
harder.  He  pushed  manuscript,  inkstand,  and  pen  away  in  a 
iret  heap,  and  arose  with  a  stretch  and  a  yawn. 

**  I'm  dead  beat,  Faiistus,"  she  heard  him  say.  "  That 
confounded  picnic  party  to  Lowlea  has  comp]etely  knocked  me 
up.  I'll  take  a  turn  and  a  smoke  in  the  Prior's  Walk,  old 
boy,  and  then  we  will  both  turn  in." 

He  struck  a  fusee,  lighted  a  cigar,  put  on  his  hat  and  coat, 
and  walked  out. 

Involuntarily  the  woman  shrunk.  It  seemed  to  her  those 
keen  black  eyes  must  pierce  the  darkness  and  see  her  where 
she  hid. 

But  he  did  not.  He  glanced  up  at  the  sky,  opened  the 
wicket,  and  stepped  out. 

**  Nasty  weather  coming,"  she  heard  him  say.     **  Bad  pros- 

fect  for  the  First,  and  good  for  the  partridges.  No,  Doctor 
'austus,  I  don't  want  your  escort.     Go  back  and  go  to  bed." 

He  strolled  leisurely  away,  the  smoke  from  his  Cuba  float- 
ing back  to  where  she  stood.  Her  heart  throbbed  so  fast  thafc 
she  felt  half  strangled  for  brealh.  She  let  him  go  entirely  out 
of  sight  and  hearing  before  she  could  summon  courage  to  fol- 
low. She  set  her  teeth  at  last,  like  a  mastiff,  clutched  the 
pistol  tighter,  and  glided  in  his  footsteps  like  a  snake. 

He  was  gone;  no  tall,  dark  figure  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
lonely  Prior's  Walk. 

She  absolutely  glared,  in  the  darkness,  with  savage  rage  and 
terror  lest  ho  should  even  now  escape,  when — ah!  Satan  had 
not  deserted  her  yet! — there,  through  a  vista  in  the  trees,  his 
back  toward  her,  gazing  upon  the  old  Priory  with  folded  arms, 
her  victim  stood. 

An  instant  later,  and  sharp  and  clear  through  the  monaBtio 


xiroods  the 

foUowed- 

Only  f  0 

whoop  oC 

tnan,  Joe 

her. 
**  I've 

you  a-pr( 
xio  good, 
way,  nia^ 

And 
coppice, 

that  ligl 

gregorl 

She  cf 

hear  thi 

hands  o' 

'*Go( 
ghe  mui 

He  s| 

dewy  gi| 
Thewnc 

hind  tl 

and  the 

Macj 

nioonli 

Cyril  'J 

The 

full  of 

a  swor 

prison 

unearl 

*Bi  her 


long* 

Mr. 

His  I 

It 

Hou 

or'B 


P\t 


WHO  wursP 


m 


iittla 
the 

fawn, 
table, 

311  by 

her 

safer. 


m  a 


woods  there  rang  the  report  of  a  pistol.    An  unearthly  cry 
followed — a  heavy  fall — then  all  was  stUl. 

Only  for  a  monieiit,  however;  and  then,  with  the  wild  war- 
whoop  of  an  Ojibbeway  Indian,  Macgregor's  faithful  hench- 
man, Joe  Dawson,  leaped  out  of  tiio  woods  and  laid  hold  of 
her. 

"  I've  heen  a-watchin'  of  you,"  Joe  cried,  shrilly.     **  I  see  ( 
you  a-prowling  about  this  evening,  and  knovved  you  was  after 
no  pjood.     Oh,  Lord!  who  is  it,  and  who's  she'^ehot?     Thic 
way,  master.     I've  got  her  fast!" 

And  then — oh,  horror! — a  second  figure  dashed  out  of  the 
coppice,  and  a  face  looked  down  upon  her,  a  face  that  even  in 
that  light — nr,  rather,  glocin — she  recognized  at  once — Mao- 
gregor! 

She  caught  her  breath  with  a  sobbing  cry,  more  terrible  to 
hear  than  any  hysterical  shriek,  then  stood  paralyzed  in  the 
hands  of  her  captor  and  her  son. 

**  Good  God!"  Maogrcgor  said,  "  Rose  Dawson!  Who  has 
ehe  murdered  this  time?" 

He  sprung  into  the  opening.  There,  face  downward  in  the 
dewy  grass,  the  man  lay,  still  as  stone.  He  turned  him  over. 
Thennoon  looked  out,  as  if  to  aid  him  for  a  second,  from  be- 
hind the  dark  night  clouds,  and  lighted  up  the  ghastly  face 
and  the  blood-stained  turf. 

Macgregor  uttered  a  second  cry,  for  the  face  on  which  the 
moonlight  shono  was  the  face  of  the  man  who  called  himself 
Cyril  Irevanion! 

The  cry  was  echoed  by  a  shriek  so  wild,  so  unearthly,  so 
full  of  horror  and  despair,  that  it  rent  the  the  black  night  like 
a  sword.  Joe,  in  intense  curiosity,  had  drawn  near  with  his 
prisoner,  and  both  had  beheld  the  upturned  face.  With  that 
unearthly  scream,  the  lost  and  wretched  murderess  fell  back 
in  her  son's  arms,  cold  and  still. 


CHAPTER  XXVm. 

THE     MOllNING      AFTER. 

"He  may  linger  until  noon — he  can  not  possibly  survive 
longer.  If  he  lias  anything  to  say,  any  deposition  to  muke,  as 
Mr.  Macgregor  seems  to  infer,  it  hud  better  be  done  at  once. 
His  strength  is  ebbing  with, every  moment." 

It  was  the  surgeon's  decree  as  he  turned  from  the  bed. 
Hours  passed.  The  woundtid  man  lay  stretched  on  Macgreg- 
or's  bea,  white  as  one  already  dead,  his  eyes  closed,  his  breath- 
ing laborious^  the  blue  shade  of  fast^coming  death  Uvid  on  hie 


210 


WHO    WINS? 


face.  And  in  one  of  the  upper  rooms,  closely  guarded  by  two 
local  policemen  from  the  town,  tlie  wretched  woman  who  had 
aUot  him  by  mistake,  crouched,  lier  white  face  hidden  in  her 
jeweled  hinds. 

Around  that  dying  bed  were  gathered,  besides  the  surgeon, 
the  Rector  of  Speckiiaven  (who  was  also  a  magistrate),  Charley 
Lemox,  and  the  tenant  of  the  Retreat.  As  the  surgeon  spoke,, 
the  rector  bent  over  tlie  wounded  man. 

^*  You  hear  what  ho  says,  Trevanion.  You  count  your  life 
by  moments  now.  If,  as  Mr.  Mat-gregor  says,  you  have  any- 
thing to  confess  before  you  die,  you  had  better  lose  no  time. 
I  will  take  down  your  deposition,  and  these  gentlemen  will 
witness  it." 

The  dark,  haggard  eyes  opened  and  fixed  themselves  in  a 
glassy  stare  on  Macgregor,  standing  gravely  aloof  with  folded 
arms. 


**  Come  hero,"  he  said,  faintly;  "  nearer — nearer.  Who 
are  you?    You  may  tell  me  now." 

**  What  will  it  avail  you  at  this  hour  to  know?"  Macgregor 
answered,  calmly.  **  Suffice  it  that  1  know  who  you  are.  Not 
Cyril  Trevanion,  but — his  half-brother." 

There  was  a  simultaneous  exclamation  from  all.  Not  Cyril 
Trevanion!  They  looked  at  one  another  and  at  the  speaker 
in  dense  amaze. 

"  No,  gentlemen — not  Cyril  Trevanion;  but,  as  I  said,  his 
half-brother.  He  has  imposed  upon  you  from  the  first,  as  he 
will  tell  you  presently  himself." 

**  Fore  gad!"  muttered  Charley  Lemox,  **  I  always  thought 
so.  1  knew  that  cowardly,  underbred  craven  could  never  be 
the  man  who  so  nobly  distinguished  himself  in  the  Crimean 
campaign.     Won't  Sybil  rejoice!" 

**  And  you  compounded  this  felony,  Mr.  Angus  Macgregor," 
said  the  rector,  sternly.  *'  You  tell  us  you  knew  it  from  the 
first.  Pray,  how  do  you  reconcile  it  with  your  consciencep 
countenancing  such  daring  frauds?" 

**  Very  easily,  in  this  case,  since  I  was  the  party  most  in- 
jured. You  want  to  know  Avho  I  am,  do  you?"  glancing  at 
the  wounded  man.  "  Well,  the  land-steward  will  tell  you. 
He  knew  me  from  the  beginning.  Come  in,  Eeedworth,  and 
prove  my  identity." 

Intense  curiosity  and  expectation  were  written  in  every  face 
as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  outer  room,  where  the  lawyer  and 
agent  of  the  late  general  sat  sorting  papers.  As  he  rose,  in 
obedience  to  the  summons,  the  dying  man  half  sprung  up,  and 
suddenly  and  shrilly  cried  out: 


"Ikn 

vanionl 

"  Pre- 
nobody 
only  my£ 
years'  ta 
him  the 
were,  m; 
a  martir 
Yes,  gci 
and  lool< 
the  lad 
this  is  tl 
*'Goc 
is  the  m 
*'But 
of  the 
see,  in  t 
lamC: 
if  you  I 
lletd 
the  mos 
But( 
gar  as 
mtense 
**W1 
incipiei 
I  felt  i 
to  be. 
as  glac 

?rince 
ooled 
«*It 
amuse 
*  gent 
to  sih 
uized 
him  8 
"i 
doyo 
"] 
ther'i 
Isho 


WHO   WINS? 


SU 


I  life 

my 

ne. 

rill 


**  1  know  you  at  last!    Good  heavens!    You  are  Cyril  Tw» 

vanioni" 

"  Pre-ciscly!"  said  Mr.  Rccdworth;  "  Cyril  Trevanion,  and 
nobody  else;  and  how  you  could  all  have  been  so  blind  is  the 
only  mystery  to  me.  To  think  of  being  deceived  by  fifteen 
years'  tan,  and  beard,  and  muscular  developmei'*^^.  I  knew 
him  the  instant  I  sot  eyes  upon  him,  and  I  knew  who  you 
were.,  my  good  fellow,  too.  Ikit  Colonel  Trevanion  is  a  bit  oJ 
a  martinet,  and  when  he  issued  his  orders  I  held  my  tongue. 
Yes,  gentlemen,"  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  Macgregor, 
and  looking  at  him  with  fond  and  admiring  old  eyes,  "  this  it 
the  lad  who,  fifteen  years  a^o,  set  out  to  seek  his  fortune— 
this  is  the  last  of  the  TrevainonsI" 


*'  Good  heavens!'*  gasped  the  Rector  of  Speckhaveu, 
is  the  most  astounding,  the  most  incomprehensible — " 


it 


this 


ti 


But  you  will  shake  hands,  for  all  that,"  smiled  the  tenant 
of  the  Retreat,  holding  out  his  own.  "  You  recognize  me,  I 
Bee,  in  spite  of  your  bewilderment.  Yes,  I  give  you  my  word, 
I  am  Cyril  Trevanion.  I  will  shave  oft'  this  patriarchal  beard, 
if  you  like,  and  you  will  see  for  yourself  then.  Well,  Charley?" 

lie  turned  to  Sybil's  brother — his  smile  (which  Sybil  thought 
the  most  beautiful  smile  on  earth)  lighting  his  handsome  face. 

But  Charles  Lemox  never  gave  way  to  any  emotion  so  vul- 
var as  amaze.  His  chief  feeling  in  this  moment  was  one  of 
mtense  disgust  at  his  own  stupidity. 

"What  asses  we  all  have  been!"  he  growled,  stroking  his 
incipient  mustache.  **  I  might  have  seen  it  with  half  an  eye. 
I  felt  it  in  my  bones  that  that  fellow  wasn't  what  he  pretended 
to  be.  'Pon  my  honor,  Macgrcgor — I  mean  Trevanion — I'm 
as  glad  as  if  some  fairy  godmother  had  turned  me  into  a 
prince;  but,  really,  I  don't  see  why  you  have  let  u£  all  bo 
fooled  in  this  maimer  so  long." 

**  It  was  my  whim — I  have  no  better  reason  to  give.  It 
amused  me  to  pass  the  time,  and  1  was  very  contented  plaj'ing 
'gentle  hermit.'  Reed  worth  knew  me,  and  1  bound  him  ever 
to  silence.  Our  London  solicitors,  Graham  &  Moore,  recog- 
iiized  me  immediately.  As  for  him,  1  knew  I  could  unmask 
him  at  any  moment  I  chose. " 

"  But  who  the  deuce  is  he?"  Charley  burst  out.  "  What 
do  you  mean  by  saying  he  is  your  half-brother?" 

"  He  is  his  half-brother,"  interposed  Reedworth — "his  fa- 
ther's son.  His  paternity  is  plainly  enough  written  in  his  face, 
1  should  say.     The  way  of  it  was  this,  gentlemen: 

**  Six  months  after  Lady  Charlotte  Trevahion's  death,  the 
general,  going  down  for  the  purtiidge-shooting  to  the  Eock- 


n% 


WHO    WINS? 


Bhlre  estate,  fell  in  with  a  pretty  goveiiieai  in  the  family  of 
Lord  Damar — one  Miss  Emily  Furniss. 

**  He  fell  in  with  her,  and  full  in  lovo  with  her.  He  was  of 
the  most  susccptibla,  was  tlie  lato  general,  and — it  will  aston- 
ish some  of  you — he  made  her  his  wife.  She  would  not  listen 
to  a  word  without  tlio  wedding-ring,  this  prudent  Miss  Fui- 
niss;  and  the  general,  who  had  no  pnidenco  at  all,  married 
her  on  the  quiet,  and  took  her  iiway  to  London.  I  was  the 
confidant  of  the  marriage  and  the  fliglit.  Lord  Damar' s  i'am- 
ily  were  scandalized  beyond  everything. 

**  Of  course,  they  never  dreamed  of  tlie  madness  of  matri- 
mony, and  they  set  great  store  by  their  handsome  governess. 

*'  She  had  no  relatives,  hickily,  only  a  wiilowed  mother — an 
old  party  of  considerable  intelligence  and  education — who  was 
also  in  the  secret^  and  who  followed  her  daughter  up  to  Lon- 
don. 

**  Well,  gentlemen,  you  may  guess  the  sequel.  The  pretty 
bride  had  the  fiend's  own  temper;  and  before  the  honey-moon 
was  well  over.  General  Trevanion  was  heartily  sick  of  his 
bargain. 

**  The  way  he  did  storm  and  curse  his  own  folly  was  some- 
thing positively  awful.  He  frightened  even  the  handsome 
Tartar  he  had  married,  and  her  old  ferret  of  a  mother. 

"  He  threatened  to  sue  for  a  divorce;  Satan  himself  couldn't 
tolerate  her  tantrums.  He  swore  he  would  leave  her,  at  all 
costs,  and  leave  her  without  a  penny,  if  she  didnH  hear  to 
reason. 

"  He  scared  them  so  thoroughly  that  she  agreed  to  a  sepa- 
rate maintenance,  and  swore  to  keep  her  marriage  secret,  and 
still  be  known  by  her  maiden  name.  And  so,  four  months 
after  his  mad  marriage,  General  Trevanion  went  abroad,  rag- 
iing  at  himself  and  at  all  the  world. 

**  Six  montiis  after,  while  he  was  loitering  in  Prague,  I 
wrote  hi^n  word  of  her  death.  She  had  sent  for  me,  and  left 
jher  youngster,  a  little  chap  of  a  week  old,  in  my  charge,  and 
drifted  oat  of  life  in  the  most  obliging  manner. 

*'  The  old  mother  was  like  one  crazy — I  believe  die  always 
had  been  more  or  less  cracked — but  she  got  so  obstreperous  on 
my  hands  that  I  had  to  shut  her  up  in  a  private  asylum.  The 
child  I  had  cared  for.  He  was  Geiicral  Trevanion's  lawful 
son,  and,  as  such,  a  baby  of  some  consequence. 

**  The  general  wrote  back  I  wiis  to  find  a  nurse  for  the  little 
one,  to  keep  his  paternity  a  secret;  but  in  every  way  to  pro- 
vide for  him  as  his  son  should  be  provided  for. 

"I  took  him  at  his  word-— got  a  capital  nurse^  christened 


« 


WHO  wunf 


111 


Ul- 

ied 

liO 

ri- 


ihe  little  chap  after  myself — Bichard  Heedworth — and  waa  a 
fatlier  and  a  mother  to  him  during  the  first  five  years  of  his 
existence. 

'*  After  that  I  kept  out  of  his  way.     His  recognizing  me 
^  might  tell  tales  in  after  years,  more  particularly  as  he  was  as 
like  Master  Cyril  as  two  peas  or  two  twins. 

*'  I  sent  liiiii  off  to  a  boarding-school,  down  in  the  country, 
nntil  he  was  ten  ycara  old;  tlien  ho  went  up  to  Ilugby.  Mastei 
Cyril  was  just  then  going  to  enter  Eton. 

**  Little  Dick  was  a  puny  fellow,  smart  enough  to  learn,  but 
the  arrantest  littie  white  feather  going.  As  the  years  went 
on,  the  smallest  boy  in  his  form  could  lick  him,  and  send  him 
whimpering  with  a  com])laint  to  the  master. 

*'  If  he  had  been  a  bold,  bright  lad,  his  father  might  have 
acknowledged  him;  but  when  he  found  the  stuli  ho  was  made 
of,  ho  swore,  as  General  Trevanion  could  swear,  he  would  re- 
main Richard  Reedworth  to  his  dying  day.  I  paid  all  his  bills, 
settled  everything  for  him;  but  still  without  seeing  him.  His 
holidays  he  spent  at  school. 

**  When  he  quitted  Rugby,  at  seventeen,  the  general  bought 
him  a  cornetcy  in  a  regiment  gazetted  to  Malta,  and  sent  him 
quietly  out  of  the  country. 

**  A  year  passed;  the  next  we  heard  of  him  he  had  ex- 
changed and  gone  to  India.  He  had  shown  the  white  feather 
80  palpably  on  more  than  one  occasion,  that  ho  was  literally 
jeered  out  of  the  corps.  Again  and  again  he  exchanged;  that 
cowardly  drop  in  his  blood,  from  the  distaff  side,  made  him 
the  laughing  stock  of  every  company  he  joined. 

*'  Finally,  he  sold  out  altogether,  and  for  many  years  disap- 
peared. The  next  I  heard  of  him  was  by  chancing  to  read  m 
a  French  paper  of  the  arrest  and  conviction  of  a  noted  burglar, 
an  Englishman,  Richard  Reedworth  by  name,  and  his  sentence 
i^cr  life  to  Toulon. 

"I  kept  this  item  from  General  Tre'«' anion;  he  was  abroad 
'with  Miss  Sybil  at  the  time.  I  had  also  kept  from  him  the 
fact  (hat,  many  years  before,  old  Hester  Furniss  had  been  dis- 
charged from  the  asylum  as  harmless  and  incurable,  and  had 
squatted  down  on  the  shore  below  Monkswood.  Foor  soul  I 
she  was  such  a  pitiable  object  that  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  send 
her  away. 

*'  You  all  know  eld  IJestei'  -Crazy  Hester— she's  this  fel- 
low's grandmother,  and  I  believe  put  half  the  deviltry  in  his 
head  that  is  in  it.  I  recognized  him  almost  immediately;  bat 
A  htd  seen  Colonel  Trevaiuon  before  that,  and  passed  mj  word 


214 


WHO   WINSf 


to  keep  his  identity  secret.  How  he  escaped  from  Toulon,  ha 
best  knows.     There  is  his  history,  so  far  as  I  can  tell  it." 

Reedworth  shut  up  with  a  sort  of  snap,  like  a  human  jack- 
knife,  and  surveyed  the  wounded  man  through  his  spectacles. 
The  haggard  dark  eyes  lifted  themselves  in  a  glassy  stare  to 
his  face. 

**  How  I  escaped  matters  little,"  he  said,  feebly.  "  I  did 
escape,  and  returned  to  England.  I  had  no  idea  then— al- 
though I  thought  him  dead — of  passing  myself  off  for  my  eider 
brother.  The  proj'^ct  wonld  never  have  entered  my  head  of 
itself,  although  I  fancied  him  drowned,  and  knew  how  strik- 
ingly I  resembled  him.  But  one  day,  standing  on  the  steps  of 
a  hotel,  a  military  man.  Captain  Hawksley,  passing,  paused, 
held  out  his  hand  and  accosted  me  as  Colonel  Trevanion.  I 
answered  his  questions  as  best  I  might,  without  undeceiving 
him,  and  he  gave  me  a  cordial  invitation,  at  parting,  to  call 
upon  him.  Shortly  after  came  the  telegram  from  Trevanion 
Park,  urging  my  return,  and  a  long,  earnest  letter  written  by 
Miss  Trevanion.  It  was  followed  by  one  from  old  Hester,  my 
grandmother,  commanding  me  to  come  down  at  once,  as  Cyril 
Trevanion,  and  claim  what  was  rightfully  my  due.  But  the 
cursed  cowardice  that  has  been  the  bane  of  my  life,  held  me 
back.  I  vacillated,  longing,  yet  afraid  to  venture.  At  last 
Hester  came  to  me  in  person.  As  Reedworth  says,  she  has  the 
foul  fiend's  own  temper;  she  would  commit  a  murder  as  fasfc 
as  look  at  you.  I  dared  not  disobey  longer.  I  came  to  Tre- 
yanion — and — you  all  know  the  rest." 

**  No  we  don't,''  said  the  rector;  "  we  don't  know  how  yon 
came  to  be  in  league  with  Mrs.  Ingram,  or  how  you  came  to 
be  shot." 

**  It  was  Mrs.  Ingram's  mistake,"  said  the  author,  coolly; 
***  she  thought  she  was  shooting  me." 

"  Toil !    She  knew  you  then?" 

**  She  did;  I  told  her  night  before  last.  I  caught  her  at 
nidnight  coming  out  of  the  Priory  with  yonder  dying  man.  He 
escaped — perhaps  he  will  tell  you  what  brought  them  there." 

*'  The  lost  will,"  the  dying  man  murmured,  shuddering  at 
the  memorv  of  that  night;  ''  she  knew  its  hiding-place,  and— 
oh,  pitiful  Heaven! — that  of  the  dead  general." 

There  was  a  universa!  exclamation  of  horror.  And  then,  in 
broken  accents,  General  Tievanion's  younger  son  related  the 
history  of  that  night — of  the  secret  room — of  the  mystery  of 
Monks  wood. 

**  The  will  is  in  the  pocket  of  my  coat,"  he  faltered;  "  the 
will  that  giyes  leim  every thmg  now.  It  was  not  my  fault— Uiey 


drove  md  t 
sowardice. 
He  nevei 
brow — its 
lun  glorify 
laan  fled  t( 


The  but 

in  the  soft 

open  wind 

wonders  ( 

astonishmi 

lingered. 

always  fel 

to  find  h 

girlhood  '. 

mance,  ar 

•was  not  h 

Btarry  eye 

But  sh 

eaid  enoi 

lady's  ast 

ened  to  h 

It  is 


ti 


the  blood 

conclude( 

ment  anc 

Everyboc 

punished 

curtain  v 

3ort  of  tl 

Princess' 

your  yoi; 

hero,  aft 

don't  se( 

oft  in  th 

now,  yoi 

. — I  mea 

have  to 

crossing 

:|IUghttl 


WHO  wnraP 


m 


droTe  mfi  to  it,  Hester  and  Edith  Ingram,  and— my  wretched 
cowardice.     I  was  afraid  of  them  all,  and  this  is  the  end." 

He  never  spo-ce  again.  The  cold  dews  of  death  stood  on  hii 
brow — its  film  covered  his  eyes.  With  the  brilliant  noonday 
lun  glorifying  the  world  without,  the  spirit  of  the  murdered 
laan  fled  to  its  Maker  and  Judge. 


t       CHAPTER  XXIX. 


sybil's 


"doom." 


The  sun  was  low  in  the  crimson  west,  and  the  roses  rocked 
in  the  soft  southern  wind,  as  ISybil  Trevanion,  standing  by  the 
open  window  of  the  drawing-room,  listened  to  the  tale  of 
wonders  Charley  had  to  tell.  The  amaze,  the  unbounded 
astonishment  had  passed  away,  and  in  its  place  a  great  Joy 
lingered.  She  had  not  loved  unwisely  or  unworthily — she  had 
always  felt  that,  little  as  she  knew  of  her  lover;  but  now — now 
to  find  her  hero  once  more — the  idol  of  her  youth  and  her 
girlhood  her  idol  again!  Cyril  Trevanion  a  very  hero  of  ro- 
mance, and  at  last  all  her  own.  The  lovely  summer  sunset 
was  not  half  so  radiant  as  the  lovely,  radiant  face,  the  soul-lit» 
starry  eyes,  gazing  out  upon  it. 

But  she  said  little.  It  was  not  her  way,  and  Lady  Lemoz 
said  enough  for  both.  Words  are  weak  to  paint  that  good 
lady's  astonishment,  dismay,  delight,  incredulity,  as  she  heark- 
ened to  her  son. 

**  It  is  very  like  the  grand  climax  of  a  sensation  romance,  or 
the  blood-and-thunder  melodramas  of  the  Princess's,"  Charley 
concluded,  with  ineffable  calm;  "  and  the  amount  of  amaze- 
ment and  ejaculation  it  has  wrung  out  of  people  is  amazing. 
Everybody  turns  out  to  be  somebody  else;  vice  is  signally 
punished,  virtue  triumphantly  rewarded,  and  down  goes  the 
curtain  with  a  grand  flourish  of  trumpets.  By  the  bye,  that 
3ort  of  thing,  whether  in  yellow  covers  or  on  the  boards  of  the 
Princess's,  always  winds  up  with  a  wedding;  and,  as  the  idol  of 
your  young  affections,  Sybil,  my  sister,  turns  out  a  bo7id-fide 
hero,  after  all,  and  as  I  think  he  rather  admires  you,  why,  I 
don't  see  but  that  we  may  finish  our  little  romance  of  real  life 
oft  in  the  appropriate  slap-up  style.  You're  as  poor  as  a  rat 
now,  you  know;  the  lost  will's  been  found;  and  if  Macgregor 
— -I  mean  Trevanion — doesn't  take  compassion  on  you,  you'll 
have  to  take  in  needle-work,  or  go  out  as  governess,  or  sweeu 
crossings,  to  turn  an  honest  penny.  Sir  Robert  Chudleigh 
.might  take  you  for  Gwen^  if  th^  little  widow's  ehooting-matcb 


'i  ■■    '' 


$16 


WHO    WOfSf 


doesn't  sicken  him  of  governesses  for  the  remainder  of  hli 
mortal  career.    Hey  ?' ' 

But  Sybil  was  gone — out  through  the  French  window,  with 
Cyril,  and  Sybil,  and  Bijou,  and  Amour — a  whole  little  ariuy 
of  doars^  in  jingling  silver  bells,  after  her. 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Charley,  settling  his  sofa  cushions. 
"  Don't  be  ill-bred,  and  cut  a  fellow  short.  I  hate  bad  man- 
ners, and  I  haven't  finished.  Macgregor — oh,  hang  it  I  Tre- 
vaniou — told  me  to  say  he  was  coming  over  this  evening  if  ha 
can  possibly  get  away,  and  what  witli  a  corpse  down-stairs, 
and  a  murderess  upstairs,  and  a  skeleton  in  the  Priory  to  be 
exhumod,  and  an  inquest  to  be  held  to-morrow,  I  really  think 
he  has  his  hands  full.  However,  he's  coming,  and,  Ij'  you  like, 
Ta\  demand  his  intentions  while  he's  here,  and  bring  him  to 
the  point  at  once,  seeing  I  stand  in  a  father's  place  to  you< 
Hey?" 

But  this  time  Sybil  was  really  gone,  and  Charley,  settling 
his  pillows,  lay  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

**  Be  kind  enough  not  to  ask  any  more  nnestions,  mamma, 
if  you  please,'-'  he  said,  plaintively.  "  I'm*  ilt  to  drop  of  ex- 
haustion— beat  out — used  up — completely  flabbergasted  I  Pray 
allow  me  a  gentle  siesta,  and  don't  exclaim  any  more.  I  have 
nerves,  though  no  one  ever  considers  them,  and  they've  been 
worn  to  fiddle -strings  by  the  tragical  events  of  this  day.  So 
absurdly  hot  as  it  has  been,  too!  And  the  first  of  September, 
and  not  one  pop  at  the  partridges!  Oh!  why  couldn't  Mrs. 
Ingram  have  postponed  shooting  that  fellow  lour-and-twenty 
hours,  at  least?" 

Charley  gently  lapsed  into  balmy  slumber,  while  his  moth- 
er, quite  dizzy  with  all  these  horrors  and  astounding  revelations, 
sought  Oi.t  her  daughter  on  the  terrace. 

But  Sybil  was  not  there.  She  had  wandered  off  to  a  little 
,  rose-garden,  whoro  fountains  plashed,  and  rich  red  and  white 
1  roses — the  roj^al  flower  of  love — bloomed  in  wanton  profusion. 

A  fairy  vision,  she  stood  there,  her  little  dogs  frisking  about 
her  and  making  fairy  music  with  their  silver  bells—  the  sweet- 
est rose  among  the  roses — when  a  step  came  crashing  over 
turf  and  gravel — a  step  she  knew  dearly  and  well — and  a  tall 
form  stood  between  her  and  the  rosy  western  light. 

"  Sybil!" 

She  looked  up — the  eloquent  glow  on  her  cheeks,  the  stany 
radiance  in  her  eyes — then,  again,  down.  Those  great  dart 
€yes  were  not  so  easily  met. 

"  Whatl"  ho  said,  bending  over  her,  "  not  one  word — ^not 
one  woid  of  welcome  for  t'ousln  Cyril?    And  the  ring— tbo 


WHO  wiireP 


Dlf 


love  token — I  gare  you  fifteen  years  ago,  and  which  you  vowed 
to  wear  forever,  gone — flun^  contemptuouely  into  the  fish- 
pond! Little  traitress!  is  this  how  you  keep  your  plighted 
troth?" 

She  laughed.  Then  the  laugh  died  away,  and  she  cam« 
close  to  him,  with  a  paling  cheek  and  a  shiver. 

"  Oh^  Cyril!" — she  laid  both  white  hands  in  his,  and  looked 
at  him  with  tears  in  the  violet  eyes — "  how  could  you  deceive 
me  so?  And  see  what  a  tragedy  it  has  evoked!  That 
wretched  man — tliat  more  wretched  woman!  And  your  fa- 
ther!   Oh,  pitiful  Heaven!  what  a  fate  his  has  been." 

'*  My  poor  father!  But  I  could  not  have  averted  that. 
When  I  came  to  Speckhaven,  the  town  was  ringing  with  the 
news  of  his  disappearance,  and  the  usurper  of  my  rights  was 
here.  It  was  too  late,  then.  His  fate  was  as  dense  a  mystery 
to  me  as  to  all  others.  And,  Pybil,  I  saw  you,  and  I  loved  you 
from  the  first,  and  T  determined,  under  my  incofjnitOf  to  woo 
arid  win  you.  Cyril  Trevanion  had  been  the  dream  and  the 
;ieal  of  your  young  life.  As  Cyril  Trevanion,  there  would  be 
i.ittle  merit  in  winning  you;  it  might  be  your  own  ideal  you 
would  still  love,  not  the  real  man.  But  as  Angus  Macgregor, 
the  penniless  tenant  of  the  Retreat — the  hard  working  maga- 
zine hack — to  win  the  lovely  heiress  so  many  had  sought  in 
vain — ah!  that,  indeed,  would  be  a  triumph.  There  is  the 
secret  of  my  long  incognito ,  though  I  tell  it  to  no  one  but 
you.  And  my  darling,  who  so  nobly  loved  and  accepted  the 
obscure  author,  will  love  still  more  dearly  Cousin  Cyril.  For 
me,  I  am  the  haj)piest  man  on  earth!" 

And  then  Cyril,  and  Sybil,  and  Bijou,  and  Amour  set  up 
furious  and  indignant  yelps  of  expostulation;  for  tliis  audacious 
male  intruder  deliberately  kissed  their  mistress! 

"  And  Mrs.  Ingram,  Cyril?  she  is  your — 3''our — " 

**  Not  wife,  Sybil — she  never  was  that;  but  she  is  the  woman 
ivho  duped  me  into  eloping  with  her  sixteen  years  ago— who 
ivrought  the  ruin  of  my  life.  It  was  no  marriage  hi  the  best 
-—contracted  by  a  minor,  without  a  license,  and  performed 
by  the  Blacksmith  of  Gretna.  But  from  even  the  shadow  o.f 
a  claim  the  law  set  me  free  years  ago.  That  miserable  woman. 
Rose  Dawson,  shall  not  stand  one  second  between  you  and  me, 
my  peerless  darling!" 

"How  cruel  she  has  been!  how  terribly  mercilessi"  Sybil 
murmured.  '*  To  think  of  your  father's  awful  fate.  I  will 
never  forgive  her  for  thi   ,  Cyril — never — never!" 

'*  I>on*t  think  of  it,  my  dearest;  such  horrors  are  not  for 
your  gentle  ears  or  tender  heart.    To-uight  we  will  find  the 


tl8 


WHO   WIKSf 


Becrefc  room,  and  the  remains  will  be  placed  in  the  familj 
vault.  And,  my  dear  love,  there  is  so  much  to  be  done  that  I 
must  leave  you  at  once.  To-mor»'ow  they  hold  the  inquest, 
and  remove  her  to  Speckhaven  Jail;  for,  of  course,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  the  verdict.  Slie  was  caught  *  red-handed,' 
and  by  her  own  son.  She  horsewhipped  him  Ihe  other  day. 
I  hope  she  recognizes  the  lex  taUonis.  I'm  afraid  that  poor 
persecuted  Gwendoline  will  exult  in  the  fall  of  her  foe/' 

"'  And  the  will,  Cyril,  you  found  that?'^ 

**  Yes,  Miss  Trevanion,  and  you  are  a  pauper,  thanks  to 
yourself.  I  shall  consign  that  will  to  the  fire  immediately  I 
get  home.     It  should  never  have  had  been  made.'' 

"  No,  no!"  Sybil  said,  clinging  to  him;  '*  no,  no,  Cyril!  let 
it  stand.  It  doesn't  much  matter  which  of  us  has  your  fa- 
ther's inheritance;  but  it  is  your  birthright,  and  I  had  much 
rather  owe  everything  to  you.  Let  it  stand,  and  take  me  as  I 
am — penniless  Sybil  Lemox — my  love,  my  hero,  my  brave, 
true  Cyril!" 

And  then  Bijou,  and  Amour,  and  company,  nearly  went 
into  convulsions;  for  this  time  it  was  their  mistress  who  kissed 
the  bearded  intruder — this  human  poacher  on  their  manor! 

**  Your  slave  has  but  to  obey,  oh,  fairest  Princess  Sybil.  By 
the  bje.  and  apropos  of  nothing,  I  left  poor  old  Hester  per- 
formmg  a  dort  of  keen  over  her  dead — the  only  mourner — 
poor,  crazed  creature!  Do  you  recollect  her  baleful  cb-iiit,  her 
weird  prophecy,  of  which  you  were  to  be  the  victim?  *  Dark 
falls  the  doom  upon  the  last  fair  daughter  of  the  race.'  The 
doom  has  fallen,  or  is  about  t'  fall,  I  fancy." 

**  How?"  Sybil  asked,  ralher  startled. 

**  Why,  you  are  doomed — yes,  irrevocably — to  be  my  wife, 
within  the  next  three  months  at  furthest,  than  which  no  more 
awiul  doom  could  possibly  befall." 

**  Very  trie;  so  I  shall  hesitate  long  before  taking  the  fatal 
Step.  Don't  flatter  yourself  I  shall  rush  to  my  doom  within 
the  next  three  mmths.  If  I  consent  m  three  years  you  may 
think  yourself  fortunate.  Here  comes  mamma,  with  a  face 
that  is  a  whole  catechism  in  itself.  Poor,  dear  mamma!  she 
takes  the  full  of  her  pet,  Mrs.  Ingram,  very  deeply  to  heart." 

"  I  shall  beat  a  retreat,"  said  Trevanion.  "  Tell  mj  lady  I 
am  driven  to  death,  and  we'll  answer  questions  by  the  whole- 
sale the  next  time  I  come  over.  For  the  present,  my  dearest, 
adieu.*' 

He  made  his  escape  "oarely  m  time,  and  rode  back,  in  the 
(ulvery  September  twilight,  to  the  Prior's  Retreat — the  house 
of  mournmg  now — where  old  Hccter  still  rocked  and  crooned 


WHO    WIKS? 


aid 


over  her  dead,  and  the  wretched  murderess  crouched  in  th» 
chamber  above. 

The  inquest  was  held  next  day,  and  the  verdict  returned, 
*•  Willful  murder." 

A  carriage  and  two  constables  were  in  waiting  to  convey  the 
prisoner  to  Speckhaveu  Jail,  to  stand  her  trial,  at  the  autumn 
assiaeF,  for  life. 

As  they  led  her  down,  haggard,  hollow-eyed — her  beauty  all 
gone  in  a  night — she  paused  on  the  threshold  and  asked  to  see 
the  servant,  Joe. 

It  was  a  strange  request,  but  they  granted  it,  and  Joe,  with, 
his  cap  pulled  far  over  his  eyes,  slouched  forward  with  hanging 
head,  and  his  mother  bent  forward  and  kissed  him. 


(( 


t> 


You  are  my  son,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am  sorry  I  struck 
you.  1  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me;  I  don't  deserve  it,  and 
you  can  not;  but  forget  me,  if  you  can.  It  was  just  retribu 
tion  that  you  should  have  arrested  me  in  the  act.    Good-bye  I" 

And  then  she  turned  to  Cyril  Trevanion,  standing  with 
lolded  arras,  terribly  stern  and  grave. 

**  I  neither  ask  you  to  forgive  nor  forget.  Ycu  will  be 
happy  in  spite  of  me.  I  did  my  best — I  fought  to  the  last.  I 
would  have  killed  3'ou  if  I  could,  but  you  have  won!" 

They  led  her  away.  She  spoke  no  word  as  the  carriage 
whirled  through  the  town,  followed  by  the  hootings  and  groans 
of  the  mob,  who  would  have  torn  her  to  pieces  could  they  have 
reached  her.  They  looked  her  in  her  dreary  cell,  which  she 
was  to  leave  but  for  a  colder  and  darker  home,  and  left  her  to 
herself  and  the  long,  pitiless  night. 

And  in  the  morning  they  found  her  dead.  A  tiny  knife — so 
tiny  that  she  had  hidden  it  in  the  thick  coils  of  her  hair — had 
opened  a  vein,  and,  without  word  or  cry^  she  had  lain  there 
luons  and  bled  to  death. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

MISS  chudleigh's  last. 

Laid  in  a  rude  pine  coffin,  without  shrive  or  shroud,  they 
buried  her,  in  the  twilight  of  the  same  day,  in  the  dreary 
prison  burial-ground.  And  among  all  who  had  admired  the 
brilliant  widow,  there  was  not  one  to  look  his  last  on  her  now, 
or  mourn  over  that  unhallowed  grave. 

And  a  wees  later  a  long  and  stately  procession  followed  the 
plumed  hearse  that  bore  General  Ewes  Trevanion  to  his  last 
resting-place,  in  the  vaults  of  the  old  monastic  church.  And 
the  lion  of  the  day — the  talk  cf  the  county — this  modi^rn  ham 


Z9Q 


WHO   WINS? 


1 


of  romance,  Cyril  Trevanion,  followed  as  chief  mourner,  look- 
injr  unspeakably  handsome  and  patrician  in  his  sablefi— a  oor» 
eair  or  a  lord  to  the  life. 

There  had  been  still  a  third  funeral — a  very  quiet  one — and 
i  General  Trevanion's  younger  son,  so  foully  murdered,  was 
j  also  laid  in  his  long  home.  It  was  a  grievesome  week  with  its 
three  funerals;  and  straightway  they  were  buried  and  out  of 
sight,  people  set  themselves  to  the  task  of  forgetting  as  rap- 
idly as  might  be.  It  was  the  old  sublime  lesson  of  life  over 
again — your  fate  and  mine,  some  day — told  in  three  words- 
dead  and  forgotten. 

Perhaps,  of  all  who  remembered,  there  was  none  felt  the 
pain  of  loss  more  acutely  than  Sir  Rupert  Chudleigh.  His 
astonishment,  his  indignation,  his  disgust,  were  altogether  un- 
utterable. And  he  had  been  so  ciwf  uUy  near  making  a  donkey 
of  himself,  too! 

"Thank  God!  I  never  asked  the  woman  to  marry  me," 
was  his  first  fervent  aspiration.  *'  To  think  of  her  being  so 
stupid  as  to  let  herself  be  found  out!" 

But  he  missed  her  terribly.  Like  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
the  **  languid  light  of  his  proud  eyes  grew  weary  of  the  rolling 
hours,"  and,  like  the  high-bred,  heartless  beauty,  he  "  sick- 
ened of  a  vague  disease  " — the  horrible  disease  of  ennui — more 
horrible  than  hydrophobia  itself.  The  long  September  and 
October  days  were  endless;  no  one  to  amuse  him — to  play 
witching  little  games  of  ecarte,  to  sing  him  to  sleep,  to  read 
for  him  in  a  voice  that  was  as  the  music  of  the  spheres,  to 
write  his  notes,  to  arrange  his  pihows  and  foot-stools.  Sir 
Rupert  fell  a  prey  to  green  and  yellow  melancholy,  and 
**  man  nor  woman  delighted  him  not." 

But  Gwendoline  was  happy — emancipated  Gwen! 

Free  to  ride  into  Speckhaven,  and  over  the  purple  hills  and 

f  olden  downs  and  shingly  shore,  with  the  dark-eyed  AdoniS;> 
ound  in  the  roj^al  scarlet  and  gold  of  the  service.  Free  to 
make  love  to  him,  and  bring  him  to  the  point,  and  elope  with 
hira  if  he  chose.     But  Plantagenet  did  not  choose — he  was  a 

freat  deal  too  lazy  for  any  such  exertion.  He  stroked  his 
rown  mustache,  and  resigned  himself  to  be  petted  and  made 
much  of  with  a  gentle  resignation  touching  ta  see,  but  he 
didn't  reciprocate — not  much.  But  Gwen  saw  him  every  day» 
and  all  of  every  day  that  paiade  and  mess-dinners,  etc.,  didn'fe 
take  up,  and  Gwen's  cup  of  bliss  was  full. 

There  were  other  beatified  people  in  the  world,  too,  and, 
perhaps,  Sybil  Lemox  and  her  lover  led  the  list.  Don't  ask 
108  to  tell  you  how  happy  thev  were.  As  if  I  could  do  itl   Yoa 


ieve  been  th 
and  if  you  n 
the  mark. 

The  nupt] 

an\  thing  so( 

«'  We  are 

said,  hittinc 

be  half  as  b 

I  shall  wea 

very,  very  \ 

ute  to  his  I 

Cousin  C 

dashing  lit 

And  he  wa 

prior's  Rei 

ful  bench; 

imported. 

Priory,  so 

and  fitted 

hosts  of  h 

the  rose. 

blissful  w 

"Waste  no 

would  rei 

The  w 

And  Syb 

and  the 

riage  se| 

guests  bi 

And  li 

of  all  th 

woods  s< 

joy.    T 

and  we( 

road  wi 

joy  (lar 

— beaul 

face— t 

priceles 

by  pait 

Tennyi 

short  c 

Macgr 

looked 

some  ( 


WHO    WINS? 


Ml 


the 
[Hia 
un- 
kejr 


e. 


so 


.iave  been  that  way  yonrself,  I  dare  say,  and  more  than  once, 
and  if  you  multiply  your  emotions  tenfold,  you  will  about  hit 
the  mark. 

The  nuptials  were  fixed  for  May;  Sybil  would  not  hear  o£ 
an V  thing  sooner. 

"  We  are  very  happy  as  we  are,  my  colonel/*  his  fiaiici$  < 
said,  hitting  him  with  a  rose-spray.  "  How  do  I  know  I  vvill 
be  half  as  happy  when  a  humdrum  Mrs.  Trevanion?  Besides, 
I  shall  wear  my  mourning  for  a  year.  Ah,  Cyril!  he  was 
very,  very  good  to  me — the  dear  old  gcieral.  Surely  that  trib- 
ute to  his  memory  is  the  least  we  can  pay  him.'' 

Cousin  Cyril  acquiesced,  of  course.  What  command  of  his 
dashing  little  superior  officer  would  ho  not  have  acquiesced  in? 
And  he  was  so  happ/,  so  unutterably  blessed  as  it  was.  The 
Prior's  Retreat  was  still  his  home,  and  Joe  was  still  his  faith- 
ful henchman,  though  a  n  cq  skilled  valet  had  been  lately 
imported.  He  was  very  busy  and  very  happy.  The  oil 
Priory,  so  long  left  to  desolation  and  decay,  was  being  repaired 
and  fitted  up.  Workmen,  upholsterers,  landscape  gardeners, 
hosts  of  hands,  were  at  work  to  make  Monkswood  blossom  as 
the  rose.  When  bride  and  bridegroom  returned  from  their 
blissful  wedding  tour  next  autumn,  it  would  be  Monkswood 
Waste  no  more,  and  the  **  tide  of  wassail,  the  blaze  of  yule," 
would  reign  in  its  grand  old  halls  once  again. 

The  winter  passed  happily  and  rapidly,  and  spring  came. 
And  Sybil  had  doffed  her  mourning-robes  for  airier  garments, 
and  the  most  magnificent  of  trousseaus  was  ready,  the  mar- 
riage settlements  signed,  the  bride-maids  named,  and  the 
guests  bidden  to  "^he  marriage  feast. 

And  it  came,  that  cloudless  morning  in  May — fairest  month 
of  all  the  year — and  the  very  birds  in  the  grand,  romantic  old 
woods  seemed  siDlittlng  their  throats  ringing  out  their  songs  of 
joy.  The  silver  chimjs  of  the  old  church  rang  jubilant  peals 
and  wedding  anthems,  and  the  charity  children  strewed  ihe/>i 
road  with  flowers,  and,  robed  in  white,  chanted  canticles  of 
joy  (lamentably  flat,  by  the  bye).  And  Sybil — La  Princesse 
— beautiful,  stately  Sybil,  with  her  violet  eyes  and  mignonne 
face — the  virginal  blushes  coming  and  going  beneath  that 
priceless  bridal  veil.  Ah!  if  I  only  could  immortalize  myself 
by  painting  her.  "  Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir,'*  as  Mr. 
Tennyson  i-emarks  of  another  high-born  couple — nothing 
short  of  a  poet  laureate  could  possibly  do  her  justice.  As  for 
Macgregor — nay,  let  us  beg  his  pardon,  Cyril  Trevanion — h© 
looked  as  he  always  looked,  grand  enough,  royal  enough,  hand- 
some enough  for  a  kins. 


1 


922 


WHO    WINS? 


Well,  they  were  married,  and  kissed,  and  congratulated,  ai 
I  hope  we  all  will  be  some  day,  and  the  nuptial  feast  was 
eaten,  and  the  healths  drunk,  and  toasts  made  and  responded 
to,  and  Lady  Lemox,  and  first  bride-maid,  Miss  Chudleigh, 
wept  copiously  in  clouds  of  Honiton — Miss  Chudleigh,  proba- 
bly, because  it  was  not  herself  and  Plantagenet,  and  my  lady, 
because  it  was  the  correct  thing  to  do.  And  Charley  beamed 
serene  and  ineffably  calm  in  society,  and  thought  the  whole 
thing  extremely  silly  and  insuperably  stupid.  And  the  bride- 
ffroom  chafed  horribly,  as  the  impatient  wretches  are  prone  to 
do,  and  could  have  seen  the  whole  of  the  speech-makers  and 
toast-drinkers  at  the  bottom  of  the  English  Channel  with  all 
the  pleasure  in  life. 

But  it  ended  at  last,  and  traveling  gear  was  donned,  and 
Cyril  Trevanion  handed  his  bride  into  the  carriage,  and  sprung 
in  after  her,  with  a  "  good-bye,  old  fellow!"  and  then  they 
were  off  and  away.  ,, 

Side  by  side  they  sat — it  was  two  months  later — watching 
the  sun  of  Sorrento  go  down  behind  the  misty  peaks  of  Castel- 
lamare.  Wondrously  lovely  looked  that  ISorrentine  landscape, 
lighted  by  the  sinkuig  sun  of  July,  and  wondrously  lovely 
also  looked  Mrs.  Cyril  Trevanion,  gazing  out  upon  it  witn 
dark,  dreamy  eyes. 

The  English  mail  had  just  arrived,  and  Cyril  sat,  or,  rather, 
lounged  beside  her,  sorting  letters,  papers,  books.  Ue  took 
up  a  volume,  cloth-lettered,  very  neat  and  cheap,  at  three 
shillings  and  sixpence. 

"  Here  we  are,  Mrs.  Trevanion!'*  he  said,  removing  hia 
cigar  to  make  the  remark  (there  are  vices  that  even  the  all- 
purifying  influence  of  the  nuptial  knot  can  not  break) — 

here  we  are,  your  husband's  latest  literaiy  effort,  neatly 
bound  in  cloth.  *  The  Belle  of  the  Billows,  first  edition,  by 
Angus  Macgregor.  Illustrated  by  Phiz.  Frontispiece  ot  the 
author.'  Complimentary  notices  of  the  press.  vVish  to  see 
it,  madame?" 

Sybil  pounced  upon  it  with  a  little  cry  of  delight. 

**  How  nice!  What  a  charming  portrait,  Cyril!  Only — not 
half  handsome  enough!"  (A  profound  salaam  from  the 
author.)  **  I  always  thought  I  should  like  to  marry  a  literary 
man,  and  see  how  the  dreams  of  my  life  come  true.  My  Cyril, 
my  hero,  my  author!  I  wonder  if  any  one  in  the  wide  world 
is  half  as  happy  as  1.  When  will  you  begin  another,  Monsieur 
Angus  Macgregor?" 

"Sha*»*t  write  any  more,"  said  hor  husbandj,  lying  back 


and  tetting  h 
lordly  man. 
this,  and  yoi 
are  crumplec 
perfumed  fa 
story-teller 
the  lotus  f  01 
wife's  smilei 
*'  You'll 
**  Your  wif( 
fat  and  lazj 
Angus  Mac 
remain  to 
out-Herod 
divorce." 

«  Very  ' 

Anything 

not  to  obe 

And  rig 

Macgregor 

*'  Here' 

snptching 

lope.     *'  - 
Of  com 
and  this 
italics  an( 

"My 
moon  ov( 
hearken 
friend  of 
married! 

loved  S; 

are  aboi 

terable! 

oh,  my 

point! 

heaveni 

Plantai 

And  t 

regime 

Canau 

body, 
pistol 


WHO   WINS? 


I 


'<  ' 


and  fetting  himself  be  caressed  with  the  grand  nonchalance  oi' 
lordly  man.  '*  I'm  going  in  for  the  doloefar  nienie  after 
this,  and  your  duty  be  it  to  see  that  none  of  my  rose-leaveo 
are  crumpled,  while  you  sit  at  your  lord's  feet  and  wave  your 
perfumed  fan.  I've  been  essayist,  magazine  hack,  dramatist, 
etory-teller  long  enough.  I'll  wrap  myself  in  the  leaves  of  i 
the  lotus  for  tlio  future,  live  in  nectar  and  ambrosia,  and  my  ' 
wife's  smiles,  and  let  the  world  slide." 

**  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  sir!"  in  high  indignation. 
**  Your  wife's  smiles  will  bo  few  and  far  between,  if  you  grow 
fat  and  lazy.  No,  sir;  I  married  that  '  distinguished  author, 
Angus  Macgregor,' and  that  '  distinguished  author 'he  must 
remain  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  He  must  eclipse  Disraeli, 
out-Herod  Herod,  or  Sir  Cresswell  Cresswell  will  issue  another 
divorce." 

"  Very  well,  you  small  Amazon,  don't  enrage  yourself. 
Anything  for  a  quiet  life.  What  are -husbands  good  for,  if 
not  to  obey  their  wives?" 

And  right  here,  en  passa7if,  I  may  remark  that  "  Angus 
Macgregor  "  has  gone  in  for  literature  once  again. 

*' Here's  a  letter  from  Gwendoline!"  exclaimed  Sybil, 
snptching  up  a  very  rose-hued  and  violently  perfumed  enve- 
lope.    *'  Let  us  see  what  she  has  to  say." 

Of  course,  it  was  a  "  plaid  letter,"  crossed  and  recrossed; 
and  this  is  what  Miss  Chudieigh  had  to  say,  in  the  strongest 
italics  and  capitals: 


(( 


My  Dearest,  Dearest,  Dearest  Sybil, — 7s  the  honey- 
moon over,  and  Iiave  j'ou  recovered  your  senses  sufficiently  to 
hearken  to  anything  so  cold  as  7)iere  friendship?  If  so,  oh, 
friend  of  my  soul!  hearken  unto  me!  I,  too,  am  going  to  bo 
married.' 

"  The  murder  is  out,  and  1  may  go  on.  Yes,  my  oivn  be- 
loved Sybil,  in  spite  of  Cyril  Trevanion,  Plantagenet  and  I 
are  about  to  wed.  Oh,  blissful  thought!  Oh,  rapture  unut- 
terable! as  they  say  in  the  '  Children  of  the  Abbey."  And, 
oh,  my  Sybil!  the  time  I  hare  had  bringing  that  wretch  to  the 

Eoint!  He  woiddn't  propose;  and  as  for  encouragement,  good 
eavens!  the  amount  of  encouragement  I've  thrown  away  upon 
Plantagenet  would  make  the  very  hair  of  your  chignon  risel 
And  then  came  the  awful  news,  a  week  after  you  left — ^his 
regiment,  the  — th  Royal  Rifles,  was  ordered  to  Canada!  To 
Canada  !  Fancy  my  feelings!  I  never  said  a  word  to  any- 
body. I  took  a  hint  from  my  late  preceptress — I  loaded  a 
pistol  with  coffee'beanSf  mounted  Flash  of  Lightning,  and  rode 


3M 


WHO    WIXS? 


i 


of!  to  conquer  or  die!  I  had  no  mamma  to  make  him  declare 
ais  intentions;  and  papa,  ever  sinco  the  loss  of  Mrs.  I.,  has 
been  moping  like  an  old  hen  with  the  distemper.  I  rode 
straight  to  the  barracks,  demanded  to  sr^  Lieutenant  Dobbs, 
ordered  him  to  mount  and  ride  with  me,  and  once  out  of  sight 
and  hearing  of  everybody,  I  drew  forth  my  deadly  weapon  and 
presented  it  full  at  his  fourth  waist-coat  button  I  •, 

**  *  Now,  then,  Lieutenant  Plantagenet  Stanley  Dobbs,*  I  I 
said,  in  that  hoarse,  sepulchral  voice  in  which  Ristori  plays 
Lady  Macbeth,   *you  have  trifled  with  my  afToctions    long 
enough  I    The  — th  is  ordered  to  Canada.    Plantagenet  Dobba, 
you  will  never  go  to  Canada  alive  P 

**  I  declare,  Sybil,  my  voice  was  so  gruff  that  1  nearly  scared 
myself.     For  Planty,  he  looked  fit  to  drop. 

**  *  Good  Ged!  Miss  Ch — Chudleigh,  wha — what  do  you 
mean?*  he  said,  with  chattering  teeth. 

**  *  W  at  I  say,  falsest  of  men!'  I  responded,  in  deeper  base 
still.  *  Have  you  not  devoted  yourself  to  me  for  the  past 
eighteen  months?  Ilave  you  not  been  my  escort  everywhere 
— riding,  dining,  walking,  sailing,  dancing,  singing — even 
eating  f  Haven  f  you,  I  ask?  Didn't  the  Speckhaven  MorU' 
ing  Snorter  announce,  in  its  fashionable  colunii,  the  rumored 
engagement  of  the  dashing  and  gallant  Lieutenant  P — n — g — t 

D s,  to  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  heiress  of    Sir 

R 1  C h?    Didn't  it,  I  demand?    And  now  you're  off 

to  Canada,  and  I'm  to  stay  behind  with  a  broken  heart — a 
mark  for  the  finger  of  scorn  to  poke  fun  at!  Never!  by  the 
manes  of  all  the  Chndleighsl  Learn,  basest  of  mankind,  how 
a  ^oung  and  innocent  girl  avenges  the  wrongs  of  traitorous 
man!    Prepare  to  meet  thy  doo}n  !* 

**  And  then  I  cocked  the  pistol  a  little  more.  Ton  remeir- 
ber,  Sybil,  how  poor  Desdemona  looks  when  that  black-com" 
plected  Moor  growls,  in  a  voice  like  the  double-distilled  es- 
sence of  thunder:  *  Have  you  prayed  to-night,  Dcsdrmona?' 
Well,  Planty  looked  like  that.  He  was  white  as  a  sheet — upon 
my  sacred,  honor! 

"  *  Gool  Ged!  Miss  Chudleigh  —  Gwendoline  —  dearest 
Gwendoline!  don't  do  anything  rash!'  (He  was  thinking  of 
Mrs.  Ingram,  you  see.)  'I  love  you — I  adore  you — upon  my 
soul,  I  do!  And  I'll  sell  out  of  Ihe  — th,  and  marry  you 
to-morrow,  if  you  like!  Only,  for  Ged's  sake,  put  up  that 
horrid  pistol,  and  I'sten  to  reason!' 

**  1  put  up  the  pisiol  and  listened.    And  the  result  is  we  are  " 
to  be  married  next  week.     When  I  got  home  that  day,  I  sat 
down,  and  I  laughed,  and  I  laughed,  and  I  laughed,  until  Sir 


Bupft  sen 

^ow  u  1  n 

**  Planty 

•paradise  wi 

y  "  Ho  is  t 

!  Pitv  he  ca' 

■  Stanley  Do 

**  Papa  • 

the  spirit  c 

*♦  *  Man 

Btick-mak( 

the  atTair, 

Planty  ha 

alone  r 

"  I  liai 

and  my 
bride- mai 
"And 
meeting 
est,  dear( 


u 


P.S. 


''# 


WHO  wxarif 


tM 


fiup)  rt  sent  tip  his  man  Leonce,  with  his  compliments,  to 
know  if  I  had  gone  mad. 

'*  Plant3r  has  sold  out  of  the  Rifles,  and  is  going  straight  to 
paradise  with  me,  instead  of  to  Toronto  with  the  regiment. 

"  Ho  is  to  change  his  name,  too,  and  become  a  Chudleigh. 
Pity  he  can't  inherit  the  title,  isn't  it?  Ladv  Plantaeenet 
Stanley  Dobbs  Chudleigh  wouldn't  sound  so  badly,  would  it? 

**  Papa  has  agreed  to  everything.  As  1  told  you,  he  hasn^t 
the  spirit  of  a  turnip  since  the  loss  of  Mrs.  Ingram. 

**  *  Marry  every  man  in  the  Rifles — butchers,  bakers,  candle- 
stick-makers!'— that's  vvhat  ho  said  to  me  when  I  told  him  of 
the  affair,  and  asked  my  own  hand  in  marriage;  for  poor,  dear 
Planty  hadn't  courage — *  only,  for  Heaven'o  sake,  let  me 
alone  i* 

*'  I  Jiave  let  him  alone,  and  he  has  given  me  carie  blanche, 
and  my  irouf>seau  is  tilmod  equal  to  yours,  and  I  have  ten 
bride- maids — five  in  pink  and  five  in  straw  color. 

"  And  I  have  no  time  to  write  more,  but  live  in  the  hone  of 
meeting  you  in  Paris  next  October.  Meantime,  dearest,  aear 
est,  dearest  Sybil,  I  sign  myself,  for  the  last  time, 

*'  Devotedly  thine,         Gwendoline  Chudleigh. 

'^^  P.S.— How  is  darling  little  Bijou  and  your  husbaadP' 


M» 


'•.n 


CBB  ZSODb 


rj 


d*i 


Punching  Bag 

AND 

Boxing  Gloves  ^ 


BAU  In  fiill-Mlzoil, 
bell-Mliau<Mlt  mtuU-  of 
•tiniiar  iiltl  Inn  Ik  r, 
nvtfi'    ii   diiiviiN^covt-r' 

Sil.   Biiiii>ni(ilM'i'    ItliitN 
ei't    (|ui<'U    mill    lltflit. 
fnii  bp  iilliiclifil  lor«'il> 
n»  9iii<l  llodr.    <*liOVE*4  Hinnilnrd  mIzo* 
w(>lulit    Mt*vfii    oniie«*p«i    Mmilii'vN    «l()> 
■illii.    ViiiMilaii    iitiliii,    u-iiir-t'uloi'   kid 
bnck,   flllt'il  \«itli    b(>Nt    Miinlliy  ciiiIimI 
liiilr.    Wo   boikI    .voii    cither    tlilH    puiu-liliig 
bav  /iiirt  ftt.ciichiiiOMts  ni-  the  m>t  or  four  l;Iovo9 
exact  I  >    ns    d^'Horibnd    nl)i>vn,    nil    ciiiirares 
pri>»iii<li  no  matter  whoiv  yoti  live,  for  nell. 
InK  lliiUIMi;  f'>r  iiH  at  10  cents  a  p  K-kaBe. 
8en<l  in  your  nmne  and  addr-HH.  we'll  tiust 
you  with  ih"    lll<f7INK.    Kvei-y  housewife 

will    luy   of    VOM.      \V«>  uivO  IIU!    pilliellillir 

hng  t'ttv  ni'lliiia:  VS I  pnckiiueN  iiikI  ilie 
Clwveif  foi*  Mulliiitr  ai'  piicUiiuos.  We 
Henil  youf  choice  oi  pr.u.IuiiiH  at  nuee.  Wo 
hft'e  H  liirce  caral.>giiM  inc'iudliiir  SK.  AT'/.H. 
WATCIIE."*.  MOLl.^.slKV^ItVV  VICE, 
niUHlCAl.  INSTRU.VIKNTM,  etc 

BLUINE   M'F'G  CO., 

2oS  Mill  Street, 
i        Concord  Junction,  Mass.         ir 


Physical  Trainingjbr  Both  Sexes. 

PRICE   10  CENTS   PER  COPY. 
PHYSICAL  EXEllCISE  FOR  MALES. 

CONTENTS: 
TheCctnnion  S^nsp  of  Exprclse— Heavy  Weiphta  to  np  Avoided— The  Uses  ot 
Appari'tiis— When  to  Pfiictice— Bur-bell  Exercises— Heavy  Weight  Exer- 
cises—lienvy  Diiiiib-beli3— Heavy  Bar-bell  Exerciaes--Various  Forms  of 
Exercise— Cycliitf<—S«iiiunins—Fni«t-ball  and  lia-eball— Walidng  ns  an 
Exercise— Tennis— Indian  Clubs— Fencinit  and  Boxing— Running— Exer- 
cises for  Busy  Men- Breathing  Exuicises. 

PHYSICAL  e;xercise  fou  females. 

CONIENTS: 

.^nclplesof  Physical  Exercise -The  General  Effects  of  Physical  Ezercis*  on 
Mind  and  Body— Common  Deforiiuties  Among  School  Qkla— Q>'mautlcs 
for  Qiria— Qaines  for  Qit-ls— Clotiiin^',  etc. 


FULLY  ILLUSTRATED. 


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of  10  cents,  by  the  publishers.    Address 

<>EORaE   MUNRO'S  SONS,   Publishers, 

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